Several Cups of Camomile Tea
by WikketKrikket
Summary: Sometimes Mycroft yearns for domestic simplicity, but in the meantime there's always the charming woman working the reception at the Diogenes Club, and the cups of camomile tea she adds to his tray. Unlike his brother, Mycroft knows how to relax; and there's no harm in the odd dream. One-shots from the married life of Mycroft Holmes.
1. Introduction: Edith

A/N: This piece is unashamedly OOC for Mycroft, purely because I don't think you can keep him totally in character and put him into a relationship. Even so, I do think he would be more open to it than Sherlock and I tried to keep it as in character as possible. I largely consider this as a writing exercise, partly to establish a set up for some RPs I want to do with a friend; but also as a new kind of writing for me, trying to do a very subtle romance with little dialogue and few 'moments', but still strong enough to be believable. I guess it's up to you guys to decide if I did it or not! Constructive criticism and comments are welcome :)I do not, naturally, own Sherlock.

Several Cups of Camomile Tea

There were only two rooms in the Diogenes Club building where speaking was allowed. Mycroft, like the other members, preferred silence to society; he did not want to have to deal with the inanities and trivialities of everyday life in his leisure time after having to deal with them all day at work, where he would be about to conclude some vital work on the subject of a crisis in the Middle East only to be interrupted by _"A cup of tea, Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes, could you please check and approve these documents? Excuse me, Mr Holmes, I need to upgrade your IT security"_. Mycroft hated it, but he was well paid enough to tolerate bureaucracy at work; he even recognised the need for it, it was just the constant interruption that grated on his nerves. He came here to the club to get away from all that and relax; unlike his brother, he _could _relax. It was easier here than at home. At the club the silence was companionable, at home, it was a loud sort of silence, constantly reminding him of the emptiness of the house. He didn't want society or conversation, but he didn't want total isolation either. It was a paradox, but one Mycroft had long since made his peace with.

There were two rooms at the club, however, where talking was allowed. One was the famous stranger's room, where club members could meet their guests in privacy and comfort, or meet each other, if they felt so inclined. The other was the reception and cloakroom at the entrance, where speech was simply a convenience; it would be an unnecessarily complicated and demeaning experience to try and pay one's membership fees, order taxis or drinks, request newspapers or periodicals, through a mixture of mime and gesture. There were various attendants working there in different shifts, but Mycroft had his favourite.

The Diogenes Club would not have anything so garish as name tags as part of their uniforms, so Mycroft had no idea what she was called and very little interest in finding out. She was a young woman, roughly twenty five or twenty six years of age, her brown hair tied neatly behind her; clean and smooth but without products or ornamentation, nothing distracting. Unlike many of the staff, who took the fact that they _could _talk to mean that they _should_, she was quiet and business-like. She would say, "Good evening, Mr Holmes", he would say good evening in return, and that would be the whole extent of the exchange between them. Mycroft liked her unobtrusiveness, her apparent understanding of the feeling behind the club's strict rules. He liked the way that when she had helped him off with his coat, she folded it carefully over her arm just to carry it the step and a half to the cupboard, and the way she smoothed the creases out again once she had ensured it was hanging up properly and not brushing against the others. He liked that when the clients came in with wet umbrellas she laid them out somewhere in the back out of sight instead of putting them all in the stand together to sit in each other's stagnating run off, where they wouldn't dry properly. In short, he approved of her common sense, propriety and fastidiousness. A hundred years ago she would have made a lady's maid for some member of the aristocracy; nowadays this was the closest she would come unless a position became vacant at the palace. If it ever fell to him, Mycroft had made a mental note to find out her name and recommend her. He objected to sentimental praise; but never to credit where it was due.

He had tried to see what he could deduce about her once, as an exercise when he felt his powers were becoming lax and needed some exercise. There wasn't much. That she was a daydreamer was obvious enough, but that she was precise and a little fussy was clear from the exact alignment of the bottom of her blouse, the turn ups on her trousers. She had sewn them herself; not made of money, but not a spendthrift either, judging by the watch just visible beneath her cuff when she reached to hang up his coat. When she was young, she must have worn braces on her teeth, but had borne it with patience and reaped the rewards. There was no tiredness in her eyes; she probably slept deeply for nine or ten hours a night; but there was a furrow between her eyebrows that suggested she read a lot. The slight hunch in her shoulders she had to consciously smooth out when she saw someone coming suggested that she read over a desk; from that and the hours she worked at the club, Mycroft concluded she was probably still a student, but one living away from home, judging by the red marks he saw on her hands one day that could only have been caused by carrying heavy plastic bags from the supermarket. He also inferred from that that she could not drive, not that there was much need for it in London. She had been in the habit of cycling regularly, if the muscle definition on her legs in her thick black work tights were anything to go by, but had let it drop in recent years. He assumed a rural upbringing, plenty of hills to cycle on, but too timid to try riding a bike on the busy roads of the capital. He suspected too that she came from a large family, given her independence, her understanding of the need for silence, her immense consideration for the practical things that would have been essential to keep a large family running smoothly. It would also explain her usual look of utter contentment, which he would have thought meant she was young and in love, except for the lack of any engagement or wedding ring; so if she was in love, it couldn't be serious enough to make her so absolutely happy. More likely she was someone able to be just as happy alone as in a couple or a group. Perhaps that was why she suited this place so well.

He had noticed that she was watching him, of course. It had been a rather bad day at work, where he had been forced to make decisions with no good solutions and then been pilloried for the consequences. He may have been a little short with her, a little clipped in his response to her 'Good evening, Mr Holmes' and perhaps shrugged off his coat with more force than usual so it more or less dropped on her. He didn't wait to see her hang it up, but went straight off into the lounge. She knew what drink and what papers to bring him as a default. He was in a rare bad temper, bad enough to be slipping through his control, and he wanted quiet and concentration to pull it back.

A few moments later he sensed rather than heard her approach; the staff all had soft shoe coverings and had been trained to walk almost silently. He didn't acknowledge her- they were paid to put up with the rudeness of being unnoticed- and continued to stare at his fingertips, thinking deeply about what his next steps should be. She set his tray down soundlessly on the side for him as always and slipped silently away.

It was undoubtedly his tray. His favourite paper and the new periodical that would have come out the day before but he hadn't seen yet; his usual single scotch. Yet there was also a cup and saucer. He eyed it in distaste. From the smell, it was undoubtedly camomile tea.

Why had she brought him something he didn't want? It was a nuisance. It was downright impertinent.

But, it did smell rather nice; and there was something soothing about drinking a hot drink in an atmosphere like this one. Mycroft knew it was the effects of the herb that were helping him to relax, but that was hardly unpleasant. He didn't resent his mood being influenced like Sherlock would; in fact he was rather glad of it. He had been close to losing his composure and the camomile seemed to be restoring it, sip by sip.

It made him feel like a child, or like a very old man, to be sitting here sipping his camomile tea. But, no, it wasn't unpleasant.

When he left and she helped him on with his coat, instead of simply saying goodbye, he added a new phrase to their exchange. He said thank you, and watched her smile.

ooooooooooooooo

Domesticity. Mycroft had found himself indulging in thoughts about it more and more often recently. He had a house, the house he and Sherlock had grown up in, in fact, but it didn't really feel like home. He slept there and washed and dressed there. He very rarely ate there; his cleaner had a house key and let herself in and out while he was at work. He hadn't seen her for eighteen months at least. Apart from his clothing, he had very few personal effects. He had never changed or even really added to the furniture left to him by their parents, even the library and his books had changed very little. The house was a purely functional object to him.

Yet, recently, it had started to bother him. He had never even really noticed it before- being attached to a few brick walls and the things inside them was _disgustingly_ sentimental- but the house was started to feel a bit empty, a bit cold. He was beginning to resent it. If he probed deeper into his thoughts, chipped away at his stone heart, he could find his way to the root of the problem; he wanted it to be a home, and it wasn't.

Mycroft had no qualms about it, left to him nothing would change. He simply didn't have the patience or the inspiration. He wouldn't know what to change anyway; besides his tailors, he hadn't been inside a shop for years. He needed someone else there, someone not like him, someone who would add some personality, leave their mark. Make it into a home. In short, he realised, he wanted someone else to be there, someone to come home to. He still preferred silence to society, but he was beginning to dream of a companionable silence by the hearth of home; of having somebody to chase the silence away with if it became too loud and oppressive. It wasn't unreasonable, he decided; after all, Sherlock had John. It didn't have to be _romantic_. He just wanted it to be… home.

Perhaps it was his age. He wanted to settle, and have somewhere other than the club to go to, and have someone there to make it alright.

Yes, it was his age. These feelings, this sudden desire to feather his nest and settle down came naturally to men at his time of life. It was nothing whatsoever to do with the charming young lady on reception who, he had to admit, he had a passing infatuation for.

Mycroft wasn't a fool, he knew he was enamoured with her; he knew that he would look for her whenever he entered the club, he knew he would find reasons to stay at work an extra half an hour so he would arrive when she was on the desk. He did not mind his attraction; he was a grown man, she was a nice young woman who had shown commendable behaviour and attentiveness and kindness, it was only natural that something within him should be stirred. It was what he did next that mattered, and his intention was to do nothing. He had allowed himself to find out her name- it was Edith, a comfortably old fashioned country name, and she was actually only twenty-four; slightly younger than his estimate. That was as far as he had allowed his researches to go. Caring, after all, was never advantageous; in public or private life, at work or at home. He would allow himself the indulgence of seeing her at reception, perhaps of meeting her eye when she brought his tray and collected it later, and that was that.

She always seemed to know what he needed. The girl was a marvel. Usually it was just his scotch and his papers, as requested, but on bad days, he knew it would come with camomile tea and once, when he was particularly furious, some biscuits. One day, when his neck and his back had been impossibly stiff from working at his desk, so focused that he had not corrected his posture all day, she had brought him some sort of herbal monstrosity that tasted revolting and bitter, but had helped ease the pain. When he was exhausted, she brought him coffee; once, when he was pensive, she left a notebook and pen. When it was cold outside, she brought him Earl Grey; after a few false starts with other blends which weren't to his taste. He hadn't told her what he liked, just left the other cups half drunk. It amused him to see her get closer as the winter days went on, he admired her determination, he enjoyed the game. If he was honest, and inside his own head he was always honest, his yearning for domesticity probably triggered from, or at least involved, her. His mysterious somebody was her. He probably loved her, after his own fashion, as much as you could love somebody for the things they did and the way they did them rather than what they said.

He knew he must tell nobody. In any case, he had nobody to tell and he wasn't going to act on it; not beyond thinking of camomile tea at home instead of at the Diogenes Club. Caring was not an advantage, sentiment was revolting, but there was no harm in dreaming a little dream of domestic simplicity now and then. Still, if he could have married her without the ridiculousness of courtship, he probably would have done it.

Mycroft had to smile in wry amusement at the thought. All this was assuming, of course, that the lady in question would have had him. He wondered what she would make of the things inside his head. Probably not much.

Something had happened that evening to shake her, something had happened while he was in the club- and shortly after he'd arrived, too; Edith had taken his coat, wished him good evening as usual, but a few moments later it had been one of the other staff members who had appeared with the tray; just scotch and the day's paper. Mycroft hadn't done anything, of course, just gone about his business as usual. When he came to leave, Edith was back at her post. Her eyes were rimmed red. She was clearly distressed.

As she went to fetch his coat, Mycroft dithered about whether to say anything. It wasn't an experience he cared to repeat. He simply didn't _dither_. To _dither _was never a verb that had applied to him, ever. He was Mycroft Holmes, a man of decisive action- thoughtful, sometimes, but decisive. Until then he had felt a sort of rapport between them, but as she helped him on with his coat, he couldn't help wondering if he had imagined it. Would it even be appropriate for him to say anything? And if he did, what would change? Something would. Their carefully maintained balance of impersonal friendship would tip one way or the other.

Her fingers brushed against his neck as she released his coat. She had never been so careless before. Whatever had happened, it had affected her quite deeply.

"Good night, Mr Holmes." She said, as usual.

"Just a moment." He said. "Is… there something troubling you, Edith?"

"Nothing to worry about, sir." She mumbled. She had never called him _sir _before. For some reason, Mycroft hated it. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"Don't be absurd. You're clearly distressed, it's you I'm conc-" He stopped himself short, before he said something he didn't intend to. That had never happened to him before either. He cleared his throat, looking down at his umbrella. He felt uncharacteristically nervous. It was a day of firsts. "That is, if I can be of assistance…?"

Trailing off. Another bad habit he didn't intend to get into.

"Oh, no, no, thank you. I'm sure I…" Edith said, trailing off too. Between them they didn't have a complete sentence, but Mycroft was glad the formality had gone from her speech. It had just seemed all wrong somehow. What he was not glad about was that she seemed to be blinking back tears again. Mycroft didn't lie to himself. He knew he wanted those tears to go away.

"Has someone hurt you, perhaps?"

"No." She said, shaking her head. She was sincere. "It's just…I…I thought I saw… I don't know what to do."

"Ah." Mycroft twirled his umbrella again, the point pressed into the floor. There was an awkward pause. She didn't immediately begin to bare her soul to him and for that he was glad. Emotion was not his forte. She was shifting uncomfortably, clearly not sure whether to speak. "Edith, may I make a suggestion?"

"Mr Holmes?"

"It depends on the nature of your problem, of course." Mycroft said. "In personal matters, he would be of no use whatsoever; but if it is something perplexing…"

Edith had been examining her feet, but now she looked up sharply. A puzzle, then. Mycroft was glad. He'd known she wasn't the sort to go to pieces over something trivial. He felt strangely proud.

"I see that it is. In that case, may I suggest that you go and see my brother on Baker Street? Sherlock has been of help in these sorts of matters before."

Edith nodded, considering the idea; evidentially she had heard Sherlock's name. "W-will you come with me, Mr Holmes?"

"No. If I come with you, he will certainly turn you away." Mycroft smiled humourlessly and turned to leave. He had done his duty, and anyway, he had just more or less revealed something about his personal life without meaning to, the life that had been so closely guarded until now. Thankfully, Edith had the sense not to probe any further.

"I'm not sure the problem is enough to bother him about, but it would make me feel better to get another opinion." She smiled sheepishly, but something was still troubling her. "Excuse me, Mr Holmes, but do you happen to know how much your brother charges?"

"Don't concern yourself with that." Mycroft said, intending it to be his last word on the subject. She realised what he meant and began to protest, but Mycroft stared her down. He had never paid for any of his teas; they had never been added to his tab. Someone must have been paying for them all this time, someone who didn't have much money at their disposal. "Good night." He said.

"Good night, Mr Holmes. Thank you."

ooooooooooooooo

Sherlock called him the next day. Mycroft ignored it. Sherlock always sent a text message, unless he was particularly in the mood to argue. Mycroft had an inkling he knew what about, too, so ignored it.

Then the phone on his desk began ringing, not just the phone on his desk, but every phone in the building. It irked Mycroft no end. He was at work, one of the most secure government offices in the world, the most secure one in Whitehall. This thing with the phones was Sherlock's favourite party trick, his way of showing off. What was worse was that after the last time Mycroft had overseen the security improvements himself. He had no idea how his brother was doing it. It was immensely irritating. He picked up.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, Mycroft. How's work? Any more security issues?"

"A few minor irritations." Mycroft replied. "What can I do for you, brother dear?"

"You can stop inflicting your sordid love life on me." Sherlock said. "The case is boring and the poor girl is obviously in love with you, more fool her."

"Sherlock!" John's outrage was audible even at Mycroft's end of the line. Mycroft had a sudden horrible fatalistic feeling.

"Couldn't this call have waited until after she'd left your flat, Sherlock?"

"Why, does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Tell me about the case." Mycroft sighed.

"Commonplace." Sherlock said. "One of your fellow club members died, leaving a large legacy to the club. The funny thing was, he died in his accustomed seat in the Stranger's Room, waiting to play chess with another member, immediately after your girlfriend served him his drink and left to go back to the desk and flirt with you on your way in."

Mycroft refused to rise to the bait. "Murder at the Diogenes." He said. "Poisoning. Well, I suppose it's commonplace enough. Just look on it as a way to while away an afternoon, I'll see that you're reimbursed for your time."

"What I want to know, Mycroft, is why you didn't do this yourself." Sherlock snapped. "I'd deduced most of it before she'd taken her coat off. Why didn't you?"

"Why have a dog and bark yourself?" Mycroft replied immediately, but the real answer needed more consideration. It was a good question, and one he surprisingly hadn't considered. He had worked out when it had happened; clearly in the moments after taking his coat the alarm had been raised and she had realised her previous patron had died. Her suspicions must have been immediately raised, and her fears. She would probably be subjected to a long and slightly accusatory questioning session at the hands of Scotland Yard once they realised that in spite of the victim's undoubtedly great age the death had not been of natural causes. Mycroft wondered if a little word with Inspector Lestrade was in order.

The question of why he hadn't looked into the matter himself, however, was a pertinent one. It was true that detection was hardly his area of expertise, but it wouldn't have taken much for him to work out the gist of the problem and he wouldn't have had to leave the Diogenes at all to do the rest. Edith would have been grateful. Perhaps that was why.

There was still a line he didn't want to cross, something unspoken he didn't want to say. There were scales he hadn't wanted to tip, and Sherlock knew it. He was a fool in love, just like every fool that had been in love before him.

ooooooooooooooo

The case turned out to be more complex than any of them had anticipated when the coroner returned a verdict of death by natural causes. Edith probably would have accepted this, but Sherlock had heard all about her suspicions and wasn't going to drop it. He had a great time, chasing down potential bribes and collaborations, and only finding more and more mysteries. Mycroft found himself being drawn in more and more; he was, after all, the only actual member of the club who could justify the reason for Sherlock and John to be there. More than once Edith smuggled them all into the staff areas, to show them who prepared the drinks and where. Mycroft found her to be intelligent enough, and an erudite witness. Intelligence wasn't the word, however, she told him that herself. She wasn't good at reasoning or logical thinking. What she had was an amazing ability to store and regurgitate information even when she had no understanding of it, but only if she'd seen it written down before her; in other words, she had a flawless photographic memory. Sherlock found it fascinating and kept showing her things he didn't care to remember for himself until John told him to stop it. Sherlock called her his external hard drive. Edith naively took it as a compliment. Mycroft believed her when she said she wasn't perceptive, in spite of her common sense.

They had more conversations in those days than they ever had before, and not strictly limited to the case. Mycroft only approved of what he learnt about her. He wondered how she felt about him. The same, he hoped, though he offered very little about himself for her to work with- but more than he wanted to, and perhaps, he suspected, more than he realised. He was at ease with her, she had an annoying way of undermining his control.

It was not the drink Edith had taken to the victim that had killed him. The murder was far more skilful than that. The manager behind it all had been gradually lacing the man's drinks with iodine, slowly increasing the dose, slowly breeding a dependency and also immunity to the poison. The victim smoked enough cigars every day to ensure he wouldn't taste it. It was withdrawal that had killed him; the drink Edith had taken had nothing in it. He had been dying for hours, days, without knowing why- just craving his drink at the Diogenes. It was a neat little murder that left nothing in the system, but Sherlock still found it all out; and keeping Edith out of suspicion all the way. Mycroft was pleased. So was Sherlock, at having such an interesting case to solve. He refused Mycroft's money, naturally, but Mycroft wired some to John regardless. Unfortunately Sherlock still seemed to have failed to have made the connection between _money _and _food_.

Things returned to normal with Edith. They would say good evening and good night, exchange a smile; if he'd had a bad day, she would bring him a camomile tea; if she'd had a bad day he would take her coat from her gently and bid her to take care. It was pleasant. Mycroft was content. Sometimes he still dreamed of a domesticated life, usually with her. The fire would get some use, and the kitchen, and the garden. Perhaps they would have houseplants. She would probably hang photographs, at even intervals and level heights around the walls. She would tease everything out of him with talk, and know when to leave him in silence. He would find out what she liked, too, what he could do for her, and he'd do them; it would be a partnership. A fair partnership, companionship in a domestic setting, tea for two by the fire.

But it was just idle dreaming, of course. He didn't intend to act on it.

One day, he got up to leave at his usual time and went out to get his coat. Edith wordlessly brought it from the cloakroom as she always did.

"Good night, Edith." Mycroft said.

"Good night, Mr Holmes." She replied. "Um… excuse me, Mr Holmes, but…" She slipped behind the reception desk and reappeared with a bottle of scotch. His scotch, the kind he always drank. "This is for you. Please accept it. It's a thank you. And also, a goodbye."

"You're leaving." Mycroft said. He should have seen the signs.

"Yes. After everything… I don't want to stay." She shrugged. "Anyway, I'm finally graduating in a few weeks, it's time I found a proper job." She paused, waiting for him to say something. He didn't. "So, um, I just wanted to say a proper thank you for everything, because it's my last night and this is the last we'll see of each other."

"Then thank you." Mycroft accepted the bottle. "You're welcome. Goodbye, Edith."

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft actually managed to get all the way through reception, down the front steps and to the door of his car before he thought better of it. He told his secretary and driver to wait, turned around, and went back inside.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Dinner." Mycroft said, clearing his throat. "If you're agreeable, I'll meet you here tomorrow at seven and we'll go… somewhere."

She was agreeable. Mycroft watched her smile.

ooooooooooooooo

Late one night a long time later, after she had taken her turn to fetch their drinks, set his down on the coffee table and allowed her hand to brush over his shoulder on the way back to her seat in front of their fire, although they sat in companionable silence, Mycroft realised she was watching him with a slightly mischievous expression.

"Yes, Edie?" He asked, not looking up from his paper.

"I was just thinking, your brother was right."

Mycroft had not been expecting that. "In what way?"

"He told me if I quit my job you'd finally ask me to dinner." She smiled, barely biting back a laugh. Mycroft sniffed and went back to his newspaper, reaching out to take her hand. She went back to her book and they sat in the companionable domestic silence that suited them both, hands lightly entwined between the chairs.

ooooooooooooooo

A/N: The end. How was it? Mycroft's attitudes and opinions are deliberately old fashioned; I pretty much wanted to write a Victorian type romance, in spite of the modern setting. It's probably not for everyone though! It was inspired in a lot of ways by Watson. Not our dear womanising John, but our experience-of-women-across-three-continents Watson of the cannon, who ends up desiring a home and domestic stability. In particular though, I'm thinking of the excellent Bert Coules adaptations on BBC radio starring Clive Merrison as Holmes and Michael Williams as Watson, who tells Holmes he wants stability and calm… but not all the time. Seriously, look them up if you can, you won't regret it! It's easily the best version of the cannon :) The method of murder was from one of the 'Further Adventures of' series of that show too, but I won't spoil which one :P Look it up :P

All that aside, maybe I'll write some more married! Mycroft one of these days. Stranger things have happened!


	2. First Cup: Lestrade

A/N: Another chapter being added to the one-shot? :O Well, everyone that reviewed seemed to like the idea of some follow up drabbles about the married life of Mycroft Holmes, so please consider this the first. :) I was going to put it up as a separate story as the other chapters will be far shorter than the first; but as they're going to follow on from/be in the same world as _Several Cups of Camomile Tea_, it seemed to make more sense to just lump them in together. Also, it means we have cups now instead of chapters. Not that I'm lazy about chapter titles or anything…

Anyway, essentially what is going to follow is a collection of random episodes from Mycroft's married life, in no particular order. It's exam season too, so updates will be erratic at best for a while, sorry :( This is mainly just an outlet for when I'm too tired from studying to work on the Cabin Pressure fic I'm slowly getting on with offline ;) But enough rambling! Here to kick us off is Detective Inspector Lestrade, and a little bit of Mycroft and Edie at work. :)

First Cup: Lestrade

There were times when all Lestrade wanted to do was wring Sherlock's neck, but even at his worst, he would take the younger Holmes over the older. Mycroft was always polite, but always in a vaguely threatening way; the kind who would apologise (insincerely) whilst having you assassinated. Lestrade wasn't sure what his job was, exactly, but he knew that Mycroft Holmes was high up in the civil service, very high up, with the kind of authority that could get him in anywhere.

Which was why Lestrade didn't like it on the rare occasions he showed up at Scotland Yard. It meant something serious was going on. On this occasion, it was a press conference regarding an inquiry into an investigation of a senior civil servant and their dodgy tax dealings. There had been some serious tax evasion, fraud and embezzlement going on and it had been nearly impossible to pin anything down. He'd pulled Sherlock in to help in the end, thinking he'd enjoy the change from the usual homicides, but the detective had done nothing but complain the entire time. Even so, he found the proof they'd needed, the civil servant had gone through a very protracted and public trial and now Lestrade was expected to answer questions about why they hadn't done it better, sooner; about alleged corruption in the police. It was a sensitive matter, of course, and Lestrade hadn't been too surprised to hear that a representative of the civil service would be present. He just hadn't expected it to be Mycroft Holmes himself. He rather suspected someone far more junior would have turned up had Mycroft not been worried he would give Sherlock away. For whatever reason, Mycroft wanted to keep his brother's name out of this one; and as Sherlock hadn't said anything to the contrary, Lestrade was glad to go along with it.

But it was awkward to sit with the man in the office waiting for the conference to begin. Lestrade found himself watching the clock fixedly. Mycroft, on the other hand, seemed completely unruffled by the silence.

There was a knock on the door and one of the legal aides entered, a young woman who had joined them within the last year or so, one of the team whose job it was to deal with the legal side of life at the Yard; everything from precise charges for arrests to court dates, the storage and disposal of evidence, arranging legal aid for those without their own lawyers, collaborating with social services in the case of young offenders and preparing materials for trials.

"Good morning Detective Inspector, Mr Holmes." She said, positively beaming at Mycroft, who, to Lestrade's immense surprise, smiled lightly back. "Inspector, I have your notes for today. We've been through your statement and made one or two amendments, just to make sure we're covered for everything. Mr Higgs says it's vital that you only refer to Sherl- um, Mr Holmes- as an 'independent expert' and make it clear that he is to be kept anonymous for his safety."

"Got it." Lestrade said, struggling for a name. He made a point of learning and remembering everyone's names, but they often eluded him. He had once gone for three days being completely unable to remember Anderson's name and not being quite sure why. He got past this by being sure that he knew not only his subordinate's names but also the names of their husbands, wives, partners or children. Asking after the wellbeing of a loved one usually made his staff feel valued and respected, even if once a month or so he would get that glazed look in his eye that meant he was drawing a blank on their own name. That was only with his immediate subordinates, however. There were hundreds of people working in the building and the most those outside of his team could hope for was that he'd remember one name for them. He did his best, however, and his search was not in vain as he finally came up with her name. "Cheers, Enid."

"Edith."

The correction, to Lestrade's very great surprise, came not from Edith herself but from Mycroft. He tried to recover.

"Sorry- Edith."

"Oh, not to worry. It doesn't matter." She smiled.

"Yes it does." Mycroft said.

"No it doesn't. He was close."

"He was still wrong, however."

"The Inspector has only met me twice before, I think he can be forgiven a few wrong letters."

"_The Inspector_ is paid for his supposed skills in observation and attention to detail. Such laxity is the reason he is always forced to call in my brother."

"Oh, don't talk nonsense. He's the best investigator here, or Sherlock wouldn't work with him and you know it."

Lestrade thought it would be very prudent to intervene here, before Edith found herself arrested or mysteriously vanished for speaking with such irreverence to someone Lestrade _deduced _to be one of the most important men in England.

"Thanks Edith." He said quickly. "Was there anything else?"

"No, just that the press have started to arrive and they should be ready for you in ten minutes or so." She turned to Mycroft. "Are you involved or just spectating?"

"Spectating of course." Lestrade was amazed that Mycroft deigned to answer. "I intend to go home directly after the conference concludes, assuming there are no unforeseen complications."

"Really? I'm supposed to be on until six but if that's the case I'll see if I can't take a little lieu time and go with you."

"Very well, I'll come and find you before I leave."

Lestrade only realised he was staring when Mycroft turned to look at him. "My wife." He said, gesturing casually at Edith.

Lestrade had to consciously remind himself to shut his mouth. Mycroft glared at him and Lestrade decided not to voice the questions he was holding in his mouth, namely _since when_, _how _and _how much younger is she than you_?

Later, when he was more or less safely at home, Lestrade text Sherlock to demand to know why he had never mentioned Mycroft was married. Sherlock's reply was predictably terse.

_**He's obviously married. Look at his shoelaces. **_

Sometimes, Lestrade could swear Sherlock was making this up.


	3. Second Cup: Settee

A/N: I almost feel like I should put a translation note on here that a settee is what the Americans would call a couch and what most Britons I think would call a sofa. Personally, I use settee and sofa interchangeably, so that's what it is here. Yes. Also, I don't own Sherlock.

Also also, thank you to everyone who followed and reviewed :) Please feel free to send me your comments or requests for future one-shots, though I have a few in mind… :P

Second Cup: Settee

Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he had set foot inside a furniture shop. It must have been a decade since he had been into any shop at all, come to that. He loathed and detested shopping of all kinds; that was what secretaries and the internet was for. He had survived perfectly well with such things because prior to his marriage he had never eaten at home and had really bought very little for himself or his house. Even for his suits, he had simply sent his measurements to his tailor and waited for the clothing to arrive. He would have been quite happy to have lived the rest of his life that way, without ever having to deal with salespeople and till assistants ever again.

But when one had married, and after three months one's wife expressed a sudden desire for what she called 'a proper settee', what could one do but oblige her and on the following Sunday accompany her to the nearest wholesaler of quality furniture? Although Edith had hardly come from an impoverished background and her family were relatively well off in comparison to some, she still wasn't quite used to the amount of money now at her disposal; and, had she been allowed to go alone, Mycroft was afraid she would have returned to fill his house with some awful construction made of MDF and imitation velour, bought on a five year payment plan from DFS. And so, therefore, Mycroft had suggested he went with her, though secretly he was going purely in the capacity of damage limitation. Edith didn't suspect a thing and actually seemed delighted at his interest. Perhaps she saw it as a bonding experience.

She had been entirely evasive about why she wanted a settee at all when their two armchairs had served perfectly well and comfortably until then. Finally, Mycroft wrote her vagueness off as her being unsure of the reason herself, that this was one of the passing fancies young women experienced. It was harmless and he was happy enough to indulge the caprice if it made her happy, but he was a little surprised. Until then, he hadn't thought of Edith as the kind for doing things on a whim.

The choosing of the settee itself was certainly not being done on a whim. This was Edith's first experience of buying her own furniture and she had come armed with a list of questions supplied by her father and the conversation with the salesman seemed to be dragging on and on. Mycroft had inherited all his furniture, so it was his first experience of it too, and so far he wasn't enjoying it very much. He found it unspeakably dull, and the pantomime of sitting down to 'test' each candidate was a farce. His face remained impassive and he joined in the discussion as much as he was expected to, but inside his mind was screaming for _something, anything _to do. The shop was perhaps a little too exclusive; there weren't even any other customers to deduce and there was only so much entertainment to be gleaned from analysing the salesman who, sadly, seemed to have a very boring personal life. Mycroft wondered if this was how Sherlock felt every time he was between cases, and felt he understood a little better why his brother made such a fuss about being bored. It would help, of course, if Sherlock was more easily entertained. This was the first time Mycroft had been bored since his school days twenty years or more ago and although he understood the sentiment, he was certainly not about to start firing bullets into the walls. He twirled his umbrella absently and Edith finally selected her 'proper settee', a made-to-order three-seated affair with upholstery in an extremely deep red. Mycroft paid for it gladly and they finally left the stuffy confines of the shop and took their leave.

It was when the settee arrived that Edith began to behave particularly curiously. It had been safely delivered, unpacked and installed between the arm chairs and she had seemed delighted, yet as she sat in it that evening, she was sitting rather oddly and stiffly, right in the very corner. He kept catching her looking at him too, when she thought he wasn't looking or trusting to the lip of his armchair to get in the way. Even so, she didn't seem to want to tell him what was on her mind; and after a few days of this continued strange behaviour and her unusual reserve, Mycroft decided to probe into the matter. Such things had to be handled sensitively, however. A direct question would not do, so he folded his paper and put it aside with an air of studied casualness.

"How is the settee, Edie?" Getting one opinion, Mycroft found, would often lead to others pouring forth unprompted.

"Oh, it's wonderful. Very comfortable. It makes a nice change, you should try it."

"I think I can survive without the experience, thank you." Mycroft said, smiling to show it was not a criticism. "Besides, the light is better here."

"Yes, of course." She said, and nothing more was said on the subject. She finally leaned back into the settee, but seemed disheartened. Perhaps she was regretting her choice but didn't want to admit the waste of money. His comments failed to draw out any further confidences, so Mycroft decided to leave it at that for the time being. It was only when he next called round to Baker Street that he realised his mistake.

John was there, naturally, with the latest in his succession of girlfriends. For once Sherlock was not sprawled out untidily across the settee and the couple were sat on it together, John's arm draped loosely around her shoulders, her fingers in his other hand. Suddenly, Mycroft recalled that Edith had first mentioned a settee after making a similar visit to his brother and his flatmate and suddenly, he understood the real reason his wife had wanted a sofa. He sighed. He had been unbearably slow this time.

When he got home that evening and they relocated from the dining room into the lounge as usual, Edith perched on the settee again and instead of going to his armchair, Mycroft went and sat beside her and draped his arm around her in the same manner as he had seen Doctor Watson do it. Edith smiled at him in surprise and delight, and perhaps a little sheepish at her folly, but nestled into him companionably and returned to her book as Mycroft continued with the broadsheet he had brought back from the club. He was going to stop getting them from there soon, he'd decided, and ask Edith to buy one for him instead. Since she'd changed jobs, there was nobody at that club who could successfully fold the newspaper so it was manageable without all the supplements falling out. He was glad she had found a proper career; but sometimes he missed the days when she would be on the desk at the Diogenes Club.

He was also beginning to discover how awkward it was to turn pages when you had your arm around someone. The pose seemed to come quite naturally to Doctor Watson, but to Mycroft it felt awkward and uncomfortable. Edith, too, had begun to fidget. He released her and she straightened up.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

"I'm sorry." She said, eyes downcast. "It was just a little…"

"Uncomfortable?"

"Warm." She completed. "But I agree, it isn't really the most comfortable way to sit, is it?"

"Yet am I correct in saying that sitting that way was the reason you wanted the settee?"

She blushed and looked away before defending herself. "I just thought that it might be nice to sit together from time to time, rather than having chairs a mile apart from each other."

Mycroft looked at the two arm chairs, standing on either side of the fireplace. A mile was an exaggeration, but it was a very large fireplace that dominated the room and there were a good six or seven paces between them.

"Edie." He said, quietly. "Perhaps I may suggest a more congenial solution?"

In the end they got rid of the settee altogether. They didn't need it, after all, when their preferred chairs were less than an arm's length apart, the sort of gap you had to go through sideways, just large enough that, should they wish to, the occupants of the chairs could reach over and entwine their fingers together comfortably in the space.


	4. Third Cup: Best Man

A/N: It's been a little while since I updated; I have exams coming up so I've been studying too much! Sorry for the delay anyway. Admittedly this one isn't my favourite, but I thought I'd do some Sherlock and Edith interaction. This one is set before all the others, as should become fairly evident. Hopefully the next ones I have planned will be a little more interesting! This one might raise a smile though, I hope. Enjoy!

Third Cup: Best Man

In his time, John had come up the stairs into Baker Street to a plethora of strange objects and individuals. There had been men, women, chemicals, skeletons, cats, straw, televisions, a goose and, on one occasion, a mobster dangling his flatmate out of the window until John had a little word with him. That was why it was almost a relief when, on bustling in backwards to fit the shopping through the door and then turning around, he saw only a young woman quietly sipping a mug of tea in Sherlock's armchair. Sherlock himself was completely ignoring her, sitting at the table doing something on the laptop. Checking the website probably, it had been a while since their last case and now he had slept it off he was starting to get twitchy. The woman seemed unbothered by his inattention. When John had entered she had been resting her feet on the edge of the hearth, warming them through her tights, but she sat up straight when he came in and smiled, setting down her tea cup.

"Doctor Watson." She said. "It's good to see you again. Thank you for your help before."

John knew who she was, of course. They had helped her out on a case some six months before, at the request of Mycroft, who it seemed had a little crush on her. One didn't forget a thing like that. He hadn't heard anything of her since, however, and now here she was.

"Please, call me John." He answered, dropping the shopping down into the kitchen. "Do you need another drink?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine."

"Then…" He came and leant on the back of his armchair, opposite her. "What can we help you with? Is everything alright?" This was the first time he had ever seen a client return after the end of their case, probably because of Sherlock's charming brand of hospitality.

"I'm here to beg and bribe Sherlock." She replied cheerfully. "So I'm waiting until he's ready."

"Alright." John said. "Beg him to… what, exactly?"

"She wants me to come to her wedding." Sherlock said, slamming the laptop shut in ill temper. Obviously there wasn't any new cases forthcoming. "Even though I already said no to Mycroft."

"Wait, you're marrying Mycroft?" John asked, just managing to stop himself from adding _Really? Are you sure? _He wondered if she was a gold digger.

"That's right." She sat up straighter and positively glowed with enthusiasm. If she was marrying him for his money, she loved money a lot. "You'd be welcome too, of course, Doctor Watson. It's only going to be a very low-key affair at the registry office, just our close family- but you'd be more than welcome!"

"Well, I wouldn't want to intrude." John said vaguely, wondering if his curiosity to see Sherlock's family would overcome his dread of doing so. Then a thought occurred to him. He turned to Sherlock. "Wait, do you even have any family?"

"Just Mycroft." Sherlock said, sounding distinctly disgruntled at the prospect and opening the laptop again. He clearly wanted out of this conversation.

"But that means Mycroft only has you."

"That's why it would mean so much to him- to us both- if you would come, Sherlock." Edith tried, and was ignored. She turned desperately to John. "I'm one of six children, you see, and two of them are already married, and my parents are still around, so I have ten already, but Mycroft-"

"Ten of your relatives." Sherlock muttered. "Joy." He turned around, looking irritated. "The thing that both you and Mycroft seem to be forgetting, Edith, is that Mycroft and I don't get on. We detest each other. We can't even pretend to like each other for more than a few seconds. If I came I wouldn't enjoy it and I'd just embarrass him."

"He doesn't hate you." She said firmly. "And how could he be embarrassed by you?"

"At a wedding?" John interrupted. "I'm sorry, Edith, but I can think of fifteen straight off."

"Exactly." Sherlock turned to John now, sensing an ally. "He wanted me to be _best man_." He sounded like Mycroft had asked him to go and drink someone else's blood by force- like it was both immoral and disgusting. John couldn't help laughing at his face.

"It's not going to be a long ceremony." Edith said, upset now. "We aren't having a reception and you wouldn't have to come to the meal afterwards if you didn't want to, you wouldn't have to give a speech or talk to anyone. We just need someone to come for half an hour and hold the rings. Please, Sherlock."

John stopped laughing rather guiltily. Mycroft probably didn't care and John hadn't felt too bad about finding it amusing, but this wasn't just Mycroft's wedding. He probably regarded the whole thing as an inconvenience at best; a bit of legal nuisance before he could get on with the business of being married. Edith on the other hand, who knew what she thought? This could be a day she'd been waiting for her whole life, and she'd want it to be perfect; with at least one guest- the only possible guest- to be there on the groom's side, and a best man to hand over the rings. He gave Sherlock a look. He seemed more irritated than ever and once again slammed the laptop shut with violence. It was amazing he hadn't broken the screen.

"I'll come." He said petulantly. "But only if I don't have a case by then. And make sure you keep it short."

"We will, I promise!" To everyone's surprise, she got up and threw her arms around him. Sherlock froze and didn't move a muscle. John was just glad he didn't throw her off; he could see the detective was itching to. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He grunted and she pulled away. He sprang up and moved across the room to one of his stacks of books. John thought it was just an excuse to get some personal space back, but he pulled one out, somehow without dislodging the pile, and handed it to her at arm's length.

"In return, you're reading and memorising this for me." He said.

"If I read it, I can't help memorising it." She returned, a laugh in her voice. John frowned.

"Ignore him." He said. "You don't have to do anything." He turned to Sherlock. "She's not your external storage space for things you want to delete."

"I'm doing her a favour, she can do a favour for me. She said she would bribe me." Sherlock replied.

"I don't mind." Edith said. "It really doesn't take any effort for me to remember, it just stays in my brain; it doesn't bother me. If it means you'll come, Sherlock, I don't mind being your external storage for life!"

"Better start reading up about the solar system then." John said. Sherlock glared.

"You can go home now." He said, and Edith scurried off happily. Sherlock began playing his violin. John winced. It was horribly out of tune.

"What did you do to the poor thing?" He asked, as Sherlock began adjusting keys.

"I made it out of tune."

"Why?"

"To play the _Danse Macabre _to Mycroft."

"Right." John went to finally start putting the shopping away. "So not only are you going to be his best man, you're giving him private concerts now?"

"I felt it was an adequate summing up of the opinions of marriage I'd been giving him."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad you didn't do it to Edith."

"She's a foolish girl." Sherlock said dismissively, continuing to retune his violin. "She would have cried."

There was a slight catch in his voice. John smiled. "That wouldn't be why you agreed to go to the wedding, would it?" He asked. "Because she was getting upset?"

Sherlock paused and then threw his violin carelessly down on the settee, going back to check on the laptop. "I'll have a case by Saturday." He said, with a hint of desperation. John, knowing he would make sure Sherlock went, case or not, said nothing and went back to unpack the bags.

Oooooooooooooo

A/N: In the canon, and especially in close adaptations like the Brett, you see Holmes unable to refuse a client if it seems like they're about to cry; and I imagine Sherlock can't stand it either but perhaps more because of the noise or something, haha. So that's what this is. :) Of course, if he was the Basil Rathbone Holmes, he would just have given her a sedative and been done with it!


	5. Fourth Cup: Illness

A/N: So I've had this idea for a while, but the fact I woke up this morning with a stinking cold made me think it was time to write it out. Enjoy and feel free to leave me a comment!

Fourth Cup: Illness

It was a strange fact that Mycroft had been forced to make peace with that one of the things he found most attractive about his wife was her dedication to order and tidiness. That wasn't to say that he wouldn't have found her attractive, loved her even, if she was disorganised- but he would have found it impossible to marry her. He wasn't a neat freak or the kind to make a scene if a single crumb fell on the floor, and he was quite happy to leave the cleaning to the woman who came in two or three times a week to do it; but Mycroft liked everything to have its place and lived by the simple maxim that when you had finished with something, you returned it to where it had come from. Edith was the same, although she had taken a little time to get used to the idea of having someone else to do the housework, eventually convinced because of the size of the house and the realisation that she could not put the poor woman out of a job. Not that it could have been too much work. Before his marriage Mycroft had hardly been home, and even now they kept things relatively straight and tidy. He certainly could not have lived comfortably in the sort of disorganisation of Sherlock's flat in Baker Street.

Edith's neatness had undeniably been a factor in his initial interest in her. He had seen her neat and methodical manner of behaviour, dress and work and had approved of it. Slowly he had begun to imagine such qualities removed to a domestic setting and then his feelings had gradually changed to ones of attraction. He didn't think it was wrong to admit that, had he not seen qualities in keeping with his domestic ideal, he would not have pursued Edith to begin with; after all, he had soon discovered and affirmed the other fine qualities of her personality that had grown into a deep affection. Still, he could not have married someone who was incompatible with his lifestyle, who couldn't bear his long working hours, his occasional need for solitude and quiet and space, or who was untidy. In short there were very few people he could have lived with; it fortunate- logical of course, but fortunate- that he should have fallen in love with one of them. So, it seemed to him that the first true test of his feelings came when Edith, through no fault of her own, was unable to fulfil her usual tidy habits.

She did her best of course. She was not the kind to let used tissues and empty mugs pile up on the bedside table just because she had a cold. For the first few days she simply went about her business as usual, just with more nose-blowing involved. Unfortunately, it got worse before it got better.

Mycroft couldn't stand it. He hated the dirty sounds of sniffing and sneezing and nose-blowing and coughing, he hated how quickly the bin filled up with sodden tissues, he hated the loud breathing through her mouth and her snoring that her blocked nose caused. The whole thing was quite revolting, but he just had to grit his teeth and decline to comment, reminding himself it was probably worse for her. It would have been easier to be sympathetic had ever been prone to colds himself, but he and Sherlock had both been largely healthy. They had suffered the usual maladies of childhood, of course, and as a teenager Sherlock had suffered terrible migraines that would confine him to bed and darkened rooms for three days at a time, but beyond that he couldn't remember illness ever really visiting the Holmes household. Any minor bouts of ill health were ignored and pushed through. He had certainly never suffered a cold on the same scale as Edith, who had come down for breakfast still in her nightdress and without tidying her hair, who looked weak and pale and was wandering about in a daze, sniffing continuously. The sound went right through him.

When she scalded herself on steam from the kettle and burnt herself on the grill in quick succession, Mycroft put his foot down and sent her back to bed. She went, leaving marmalade and bread crumbs on the worktop, along with the knife she had loaded up ready before realising that she hadn't made the toast yet. Mycroft cleaned up and took a cup of tea, a glass of water, a box of tissues and some painkillers upstairs; realising it was his marital duty to do so. Edith, unusually, had simply tumbled back into bed so it was left to him to shut the curtains and the door for her before he went to work. In all honesty, he was glad to get away from her- glad, at least, to get away from her sickness. He found the whole thing extremely unpleasant and mildly revolting.

And yet, he found Edith's malady hung about his mind all day. It wasn't that it was constantly in his thoughts, but it was never far from them and would reappear unexpectedly, uncomfortably. He wondered if she would feel able to get up and dine with him that evening or if he should go to the club, and if he should buy another box of tissues. He wondered if she would sleep that night, and if she did, if she would snore. He saw one of his secretaries applying lip balm and he suddenly wondered if Edith needed any.

About lunch time, he realised he was actually concerned over a mere cold. In some ways it was a relief because it boded well for the state of his marriage. He had at times wondered if it was fair to Edith that he was so much less devoted to it than she was, but it was beginning to seem that he had nothing to worry about. Perhaps he had been deluding himself about his objectivity about it all. He began to think he loved her more than perhaps he had realised.

Even so, there was only so much snot and sniffing a man could tolerate. He missed his wife. He decided he would get her more tissues and lip balm and eat at the club so she could stay in bed; anything to speed her recovery so that normal life could be resumed. He wanted Edith back to normal so he could have peace at home and work.

She was asleep when he got home, something he immediately deduced when she did not appear from the lounge or kitchen to greet him. He went up and found the scattered evidence of her day; the bedroom bin was pulled over next to her side of the bed and was full of tissues. A book, no doubt one of Sherlock's as she was constantly borrowing them, had been left lying open beside her presumably from when she had gone from a period of wakefulness to a period of sleep, and on the side table the glass and mug from the morning had been joined by several others. Mycroft frowned at them, but at least, he supposed, it meant she had stayed hydrated. He gathered them up, trying not to clink them together, and, in on a sudden whim, leant over to kiss her forehead before he left the room. She had a mild fever, he noted, but nothing to cause alarm. She stirred at his touch.

"Hello." She murmured, her voice thick and stuffy as she stretched, waking up.

"Don't wake up." Mycroft instructed, kissing her forehead again in the hope of soothing her. "Go back to sleep, Edie, I want you well."

"Are you always this tender?" She asked with a smile, settling back down. "It's really only a cold, Mycroft, there's no need to worry. Still, I don't mind being ill so much if this is how you are."

Mycroft, embarrassed, quickly left the room. Edith lay back down and picked up her book again. She still felt rotten, but she couldn't help smiling.

Oooooooooooo

A/N: Of course, if he really wanted to help, he could have made dinner for her. Just saying. XD I doubt it would even occur to him though and I'm doing my best to keep Mycroft as in character as possible, so… hopefully it's working out. Thanks for reading!


	6. Fifth Cup: Puppy

A/N: Somehow this chapter got really long! Hopefully everyone will still enjoy it though. Thank you for the lovely comments from last time, they made my day :) As always, if you have any suggestions, feel free to drop them in, otherwise I will continue to work my way through romcom clichés. You have been warned :P

Fifth Cup: Puppy

Sherlock had an annoying quirk that he had developed in the year since Mycroft had married. Every time he saw Mycroft, he would comment first on his having apparently gained weight (Edith, unfortunately, had a sweet tooth and always had biscuits and cakes in the house, sometimes homemade), and then would criticise his brother for his increased sentimentality. Mycroft on these occasions just sniffed dismissively and got to the point. He rather suspected Sherlock was only disgruntled because he saw Mycroft's marriage as a betrayal of the ideals and philosophies they'd previously seemed to share. Still, he always showed an unusual level of courtesy towards Edith and never explicitly stated his scathing views on matrimony to her; for which Mycroft was grateful.

Sometimes, however, Mycroft couldn't help but think Sherlock was as right about the increased sentiment as he was about the weight gain. He had been working late another night; as he had been most days that month, too late. Edith would already be in bed when he got home, no doubt. He hadn't had a proper conversation with her in days, but even the brief encounters they'd managed had shown it was starting to wear on her. She had, after all, come from a family of eight and then to a shared student house before coming into his home; she was probably lonely. He had tried to keep to more regimented hours since his marriage, but there were problems brewing that meant he could not be away from the office for too long. Edith understood that, of course, but he could see her temper was starting to fray.

It wasn't that he was frightened of going home, of accidentally waking her and having to deal with recriminations or worse, her disappointment. It had just been a stressful time and he wanted a cigarette. Edith did not like the smell, so he had stopped in at the club; which thankfully kept its doors open 24 hours. Unfortunately, since the smoking ban some years before, he could not enjoy it in the privacy and comfort of the indoors. They provided a balcony overlooking the gardens, however, for the purpose.

It was freezing, in spite of the overhead heaters, but it was also deserted- unsurprisingly, few of the club members frequented the place at midnight. Mycroft stood and smoked one of his rare cigarettes. It didn't make him feel much better. There was no good solution to the crisis facing him at work and he couldn't see how his marriage was going to escape without sustaining damage either. As he took a final drag and stubbed out the cigarette in an ash tray, it suddenly occurred to him that it was Edith's birthday at the end of the week and he had yet to prepare anything. No doubt one of the secretaries would have seen the date in his diary and bought something, but he felt this probably needed something personal. He wondered if he could still get reservations at a decent restaurant when it was so soon. The problem with being arguably the most important man in Britain was the necessity to be invisible. Many people did not know who he was. He had money, money in spades, and in many places that was enough; but he had no name, no reputation. Certainly not enough of one to get into the most exclusive restaurants in three days' time.

If his superstitions had grown as well as his sentiment, Mycroft may have said it was fate which lead an old acquaintance of his to wander out onto the balcony at that precise moment. The man in question was, to use his ludicrous full title, Sir Robert Horatio Harris-Smythe, one of only a handful of people Mycroft knew through personal, rather than professional or political relations. They had been boys together, at Eton and again at Oxford. In fact, in their hedonistic university days, Mycroft and Robert had escorted each other out of bars and into a cab home more than once. They hadn't exactly been friends, but they had acted often enough for their mutual benefit, an exchange of favours. They had lost contact afterwards, but Mycroft had kept an eye on Smythe. Nowadays the man was the head of the Royal Veterinary Society, famous for his animal charity work and regular government advisor in relation to animals and the environment. He nodded at Mycroft and began rolling cigarette on the balustrade. Mycroft watched some of the stray tobacco blowing about over the stone. Edith was right, it was a filthy habit.

"Good evening, Smythe." Mycroft said. The speaking ban did not extend to the grounds and he was beginning to get an idea.

"Holmes." Smythe nodded again. He felt in his pockets. When he found nothing, Mycroft handed him the miniature box of matches he carried. Smythe lit up and smoked in silence for a little time.

"Dogs." Mycroft said eventually, conversationally.

"Dogs?"

"Yes. For my wife."

Their conversations had always been like this, purely functional and as monosyllabic as possible. Smythe smoked, considering it.

"Got a pair of corgi pups you could have, over in the sanctuary at Greenwich." He said, finally. "But we're supposed to check your house out first, see how you get on with the dogs and such."

Mycroft surveyed the garden in silence. Finally, Smythe sighed and nodded in assent.

"When do you want them?"

"I only want one."

"I need to get rid of them both."

"Very well. I shall send someone for them on Friday."

Smythe nodded and Mycroft left him to finish his cigarette.

In the intervening days, he began to wonder if he hadn't made a poor and rather rash decision. There was no doubt that Edith would be delighted, of course, but a dog? Mycroft liked the idea, he found it completed his domestic picture, but if it meant slobber on the carpets and hair on the furniture then- Mycroft decided then and there that their dog would not be a spoilt one. It would not be allowed on the furniture or upstairs. Those were his conditions. But it would be a companion for Edith and, he thought, rather nice to have around on Sunday afternoons and winter nights. Overall, he was quite happy with his choice for her birthday present, last minute though it was.

He was only going to keep one, of course. Smythe might have insisted on his taking both (and he _would _have insisted, it was the nature of their system of mutual benefit and Mycroft had expected nothing less) but he had no intention of keeping them both. He would find a way to dispose of one. Dispose of, on this occasion, meant dropping it off at Baker Street. He did not think Edith would approve of him having it drowned or put down, and she would probably find the idea of his brother having the dog's brother quite charming. And so, in due course, he left work at lunch time with his new charges that he had sent someone for, and stopped in at Baker Street on the way home. It was John that opened the street door.

"Hello." He said, looking harangued. "Please tell me you have a case."

"No, I have a puppy." Mycroft said, quite seriously. John looked startled and glanced down at the carrier at Mycroft's feet, from which the faint sounds of movement were issuing forth.

"Right." John shrugged, standing aside to let him in, although he added "Well, Sherlock said if you didn't have a case, I was supposed to tell you to piss off."

"Charming as always. Isn't Mrs Hudson here? I was going to give it to her."

"No, she's out." John was looking wary now. "Why, what's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It is a perfectly happy and healthy corgi pup with nothing remarkable about it whatsoever." Mycroft answered.

"Right, I'm sorry, I forgot giving out random happy puppies was your trademark." John said.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock suddenly bellowed down from upstairs, uncouth as always. "Either go away or come up and get it over with!"

Mycroft went up and half an hour later came back down in a considerably worse temper, but having successfully divested himself of one of the puppies, the more dribbley of the pair. Sherlock had been as suspicious of it as John, even when Mycroft took it out of the carrier to prove that it was not radioactive, concealing spy cameras, or in any other way suspicious. Sherlock soon deduced that he had taken two and, once they realised that it was simply to stop Edith from trying to keep both, the two men seemed to relax. Sherlock seemed reluctantly fascinated, restlessly moving about the room, his eyes darting back to the dog in spite of himself until he finally gave in and went over to pet it.

"We had a dog." He had muttered, vaguely, half-remembering. Mycroft had been surprised he remembered at all; the Holmes family had indeed had a dog, much beloved by Sherlock, but who had been taken away when the two year old yanked the poor things ears one too many times and the dog had bitten his ankles. Sherlock hadn't seemed unduly surprised, saying he had long since worked out that the scars there were the tooth marks of a dog. For some reason, that seemed to endear him to the puppy even more and he scratched it behind the ears. John huffed, but the dog was clearly staying. They had agreed to pass it onto Mrs Hudson to care for it (Mycroft did not want to sentence the poor thing to death), but not before Sherlock had insisted on naming it Gladstone.

John had been baffled to say the least by this choice, but Mycroft understood the reference perfectly; understood and rose above it. During his first semester at Oxford, Mycroft had been on the debating team and had ended up in a fierce debate about whether William Gladstone was the greatest Victorian Prime Minister. It had become rather impassioned; it was the only time he had really lost his temper in public. Harris-Smythe had, as it happened, been his opponent, and he had been insisting that Gladstone made Britain truly great; to which Mycroft had replied that, to the contrary, Gladstone had been the beginning of the nation's decline and one thing had lead to another and culminated in Mycroft having his nose broken by a scholarship student and outspoken socialist. It was altogether the most humiliating moment of his life and was, therefore, one of Sherlock's favourites. Mycroft had quietly left the debating society after that. After all, it did not do to actually admit to having an opinion if one wanted to get on in politics. Ignoring the slight, Mycroft had left the dog with them and taken his leave.

He was home before Edith, of course, which had never happened so much as once before. He was glad. It gave him time to introduce the puppy into the house and try to calm it down. He set the carrier down on the floor, near their armchairs, as he supposed that was where it was most likely to spend its time. He'd bought it a basket to sleep in, and he brought that into the room too, thinking it would be a more aesthetic arrangement to please Edith with- a puppy in a basket rather than a puppy in a box. Then, at last, he opened the carrier, sat down, and waited.

The puppy was obviously curious rather than timid, because after very few moments it emerged. Mycroft left it to itself for a few moments, allowing it to have a good sniff about the place, before reaching down to let it sniff his fingers and scratching it between its ears.

He liked dogs, that was the truth of it. He'd liked the dog they'd had as a child. It had been his dog, and when it was sold, Mycroft had been most upset. The dog had, after all, been around longer than Sherlock. Of course, it was all in the past; and he'd been fond of his brother too.

The puppy seemed to enjoy the fuss and rolled over, wriggling on his back- her back, in fact, now that he looked properly. Mycroft obliged and scratched her stomach. He was still determined that the dog wouldn't be spoilt, but he had to settle her in. Edith, he was sure, would be quite taken with her, more than the flowers and the books he had picked up in the passing days, more than the expensive shoes his secretaries had purchased on his behalf.

He heard the key in the front door while the puppy- whom he was _not _spoiling, merely settling- was still in his lap. Mycroft smiled but remained silent as he heard Edith padding about in the hallway, removing her shoes and coat. She went into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil and then went upstairs to put her things away and refresh herself. Mycroft was beginning to grow impatient and he had to hold the now squirming puppy in place while he waited for her to come back down. She went back in the kitchen and finished making her tea before she finally walked into the room, and was so startled by his presence she fell back into the doorframe.

"Mycroft!" She said, delighted.

"Happy birthday, Edie." He replied with a quick smile. "Excuse me if I don't get up."

"You're excused." She said, cautiously approaching. Mycroft could see the surprise and joy- there was no other word for it- on her face as she saw clearly what was in his lap. "And who's this?"

"This?" Mycroft said, suddenly finding that in spite of his plan to let Edith name her, he couldn't quite let Sherlock have the last word, "This is Salisbury."

Oooooooooooooooo

A/N: I feel a little admin may be necessary here. First of all, I know the dog is traditionally a bull pup (because Watson has one in the original _Study in Scarlet_), and it was going to be a bull pup originally. However, my dear friend **Blackthorn14** is currently obsessed with corgis, and got it into my head cannon that it should be a corgi. It arguably suits Mycroft more.

As to the dogs' names- A history lesson! In the mid-late Victorian era, Britain's political allegiance got kicked about all over the place. Between 1868-1902, these were our prime ministers: Disraeli, Gladstone, Disraeli, Gladstone, Salisbury, Gladstone, Salisbury, Gladstone, Roseberry, Salisbury. Gladstone was a Liberal, so left wing (ish, they weren't terribly left at all) while Salisbury, Disraeli and Roseberry were all Conservative right wingers. Gladstone was popular at the time, known as the 'Good Old Man' and made reforms to the voting system and tried to promote 'individual advancement' and social mobility. He was pretty hung up about the issue of Ireland, however, and people felt it distracted him from the rest of the Empire, which was starting to go to pot; so people were fairly polarised about him. He was famous for his rivalry with Disraeli… but Salisbury makes a better name for a dog :P (pronounced 'Sales-bury', btw). In spite of being a Conservative, Salisbury wasn't too bad on the old reforms either, but he was quite traditional in other ways. Essentially, it's a silly joke about political affiliations and two hundred year old satire. I can only apologise -_-;;


	7. Sixth Cup: Confessions

A/N: I'm sorry this one took so long! I have exams over the next three weeks so please bear with patchy- if any- updates and I'll get back into them with more frequency afterwards. This one seemed to take forever, and originally I was going to carry it on longer; but those events will have to go in the next chapter instead, which I promise will be a return to fluff. In the meantime, here, have the obligatory suspicions chapter!

Sixth Cup: Confessions

One night in the middle of December, Mycroft stepped into his home from the bitter wind and perpetual sleet and was greeted, not by the sound of the bedroom or lounge doors opening and his wife calling down to him; but by the sound of laughter. He frowned, listening. It was Edith, but not as he had ever heard her. Edith was a sensible woman, capable of the occasional feminine chuckle, the slight laugh, but she had never been prone to _tittering_. He had certainly never heard her in such a fit of hysteria. He went to go in and see what the cause of the merriment was, but stopped short when another laugh joined his wife's. It was a man's laugh.

Edith had every right to bring guests to the house, and he didn't want to be troubled by her notifying him each time she did. She had done nothing wrong. And yet no third or fourth joined them, no female presence mitigating between them, just Edith and the man laughing together. He had worked late again that night and it was past ten, almost eleven. He turned and went upstairs.

It was of course impossible that Edith was having an affair. Even if he doubted her virtue and faithfulness, it was impossible to conceive that she would have been able to conduct an affair without his noticing.

And yet he had been so often absent of late, and there was an unknown man making her laugh in a way he never would. As he removed his tie and went to put it back in the wardrobe, he couldn't help but examine himself critically in the mirror. He felt old, old in body and even older in spirit. Edith was only twenty-eight, he himself was approaching forty. It wasn't an impossible gap, but sometimes it seemed she was still just a girl. There were ways in which he knew he could not completely fulfil her simply through his personality or lack of inclination; and she was still young. It would be understandable, in a way, if she turned elsewhere.

He had to ask himself the question of what he would do if she was being unfaithful. He could follow in the footsteps of his parents who had both had numerous obvious extra-marital flings, but they had seemed quite happy to continue as they were, finding their fulfilment wherever they could. But then, Mycroft thought, he wasn't sure there had been any real love in the match between them. There had been a deep affection, a certain fondness, but- here he cut the thought off. 'Affection' and 'fondness' were the words he usually reserved for his own emotions and he found the comparison distasteful. He could not bear the horns of a cuckold with grace, his pride would not allow the sanctity of his marriage to be undermined in that manner. He could always turn a blind eye to it, feign ignorance and leave Edie to her happiness. He had, after all, married her largely in the pursuit of domestic stability, just as the prospect of financial stability had allured her. This had always been a match made in his head before his heart, and if he did not have her love, what did that signify? There would still be two cups of tea in armchairs before the fire. And yet, however much he denied it, he would still know; and he wasn't sure he could stand it.

His heart twisted when he realised that, irrespective of his wishes, Edith might want a divorce. If she asked for one, what could he do but quietly let her go? He had never denied her anything that she asked for, and the pre-nuptial agreement would mean she would take no more out than she had put in. His life would just have to return to how it was before.

He heard voices in the hall, Edith saying good night. A moment later she was calling him, asking where he was. She must have seen his umbrella and coat in the hall and realised he'd come in. He waited in silence until she came into the room to find him, smiling at her entrance- but perhaps not as sincerely as usual. She, on the contrary, looked as pleased as always.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in." She said, settling herself on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not surprised, Edie." Mycroft answered. "You seemed to be having a good time."

"You should have come in and said hello."

"I didn't want to disturb you."

"You wouldn't have disturbed us. You could have met Luke."

"I think I can live without meeting Luke." Mycroft sniffed.

Edith looked at him in confusion and then smiled, kneeling up on the bed to wrap her arms around his neck.

"I think you're getting jealous." She informed him.

"I think you've been drinking." He retorted, as she clearly had.

"Mm, only a little. I'm not drunk." She said, kissing his cheek. "You really must meet Luke, though. He's so funny."

Mycroft took hold of her hand, coming out of her grip and lifting it to show her.

"As long as you remember what this ring means." He said, fixing her with a firm look.

Edith did not take his warning well. She yanked her hand away and went off to the bathroom to have a shower without another word. She didn't come downstairs to say goodnight and when he went up to bed she was already asleep.

The next morning, though, it all seemed to have blown over. She behaved as she always did, and when he apologised for his harsh words of the night before she was so eager to make up she pretended to hardly remember what he was talking about. She also complained about the muddy marks it seemed Luke's shoes had left in their hallway. Relatively reassured that she was neither unfaithful nor had realised his short lived suspicions, Mycroft had gone to work quite contentedly.

Unfortunately, he returned home to more odd behaviour. He had deliberately, to show an effort, left work on the dot at five PM. When he came in, Edith was on the telephone in the hall. Her head snapped up in shock and she gave him a shaky smile.

"Sorry, my husband just came in." She said down the phone. "What was that? Yes. Yes. Wonderful. Absolutely, great. Thank you very much, goodbye." This was all said in a hurry and she hung up in a fluster. "Hello!"

"Hello, Edie. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes. That was just, um, Luke. Arranging to, um, have coffee. "

"I see." Mycroft answered, pretending not to notice the lie and instead bending down to make a fuss of Salisbury who had, as usual, trotted into the hall to see what was going on. Mycroft expected Edith to say something else, to ask if he minded her seeing Luke again, but instead she bustled off into the kitchen, clearly awkward. When she shut the door behind her, it seemed somehow to be very definite.

The lie weighed heavily on them both all through dinner. He could see she was thinking about telling him, was working up to it, but he certainly wasn't going to ask. She was the one who had done the wrong, she could speak first. But perhaps he had been a little inattentive, a little cool or sparse in his attentions. Perhaps he had simply married her too soon, before she was ready to commit. Still, he was satisfied that the blame did not lie with him and ate with his usual appetite.

She finally broached the subject when she brought the after dinner cups of tea into the lounge and settled into the chair beside him.

"Darling?" She said, carefully.

Mycroft said nothing, merely turning to look in her direction. She sounded nervous, and they so rarely used epithets with one another that it was never a good sign when she did.

"I'm afraid I've done something rather bad." She said, showing no sign of nerves in her voice or her eyes, which were fixed on his; but betraying them with her fingers, which were worrying her wedding ring; surely a subconscious sign, he thought. "You won't like it, but I'm sure it will be fine in the end. Besides, I didn't really feel I could say no."

Mycroft set down his cup in its saucer in place of displaying an emotion and prepared himself to listen. He wasn't quite sure what Edith was trying to tell him, but if she was saying that she had not been given a choice- if she had not done this by her own will, her own choice- then heads would roll. Somehow, though, he didn't think that was what she meant.

"I'm sure you've worked it out anyway." She said a little peevishly. "That wasn't Luke on the phone. It was actually Doctor Watson."

Mycroft had not worked that out. Not at all. He knew John had a certain record with women, but the man was a serial monogamist who Mycroft doubted had ever cheated in his life. He certainly hadn't expected him to go after a married woman. He must have found something romantic in it. Perhaps he fancied he was rescuing Edith from an unfulfilling marriage.

"And was it," Mycroft asked slowly "Doctor Watson who was here last night?"

"No, that really was Luke."

Mycroft began to feel that perhaps, just possibly, for the first time in years, he had not grasped the situation entirely accurately.

"And what did Doctor Watson want?" He asked, as he struggled to remember what had set him on this track to begin with.

Edith lost her nerve and looked away then. "He invited us for Christmas drinks at Baker Street," she said, with a terrible air of confession. "I said we'd go."

Edith, he suddenly remembered, was very direct. She did not dissemble or dress up the truth, and she didn't lie. Her straight forwardness, indeed, was one of the things he loved about her. And he, after all, would have spotted the signs of an affair, however hidden they were. If she was this worried about telling him about her social sin a few hours after committing it, her conscience would not have survived a prolonged- or even a short lived- affair. In that moment, he felt more contented than he had for years, and he felt he would have granted her anything.

Then he realised she had committed him to socialising with his brother, and the moment passed rather quickly.


	8. Seventh Cup: Drinks

A/N: Urrgh. I'm very sorry about this one, it was one of those times where every word seems to be being painstakingly extracted from you with a hook; which is why it's taken so long and it's a little lacking in direction. I'm right in the middle of exams right now, but it's been so long since I've updated I wanted to get this out; so I'm afraid I haven't really checked it over. But, this time next week exams will be over and hopefully the quantity (and quality!) of updates will increase, so thank you for your patience and please stick with me! Thank you, as always, to all that have followed and reviewed, it makes my day :)

Seventh Cup: Drinks

John had decided to put off telling Sherlock that Mycroft and Edith were coming for drinks until the last possible moment. Then he reasoned there was no point telling him at all. Sherlock would not be any angrier because he hadn't been told, and if he was told he would probably find a way to escape. John, on the other hand, was optimistic. He couldn't even imagine what socialising with Mycroft would be like, but if nothing else, it would be an experience. Besides, Edith was eager, he knew, to improve relations between the brothers; which would start by them being able to tolerate being in the same room for more than a minute. They needed to practice civility and, after all, it was Christmas.

If he was honest, though, he had another reason to invite them. He was interested to see how they were together, how they interacted. During the case, they had been courteous and polite to one another and the unusual care and attention Mycroft paid her made it obvious he had some fondness for her; but John couldn't imagine them being in love, couldn't imagine what sort of marriage it was. He was interested to find out, though. He hadn't been sure what they would drink either. He imagined Mycroft was probably a scotch and whiskey sort of man, the same as Sherlock, although Sherlock very rarely drank at all. He couldn't even begin to guess for Edith, but he had been out for a few more bottles and they had a reasonable variety. The handles of the plastic bags were cutting into his fingers, the bottles clinking together, as he went upstairs to the flat but he was more worried about the bottoms dropping out. Thankfully, they made it to the kitchen table in safety, though it was a squeeze around Sherlock's chemistry set. John had told him to tidy it up. He seemed instead to have decorated it with some baubles and tinsel, probably just so John would let him keep it out; but it worked. John didn't have the heart to tell him to pack it away. At least it looked festive. In fact, there was a real Christmassy feel to the place when he came in; it was beginning to grow dark and Sherlock was playing an unusually jolly version of 'God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen' on his violin, probably to oblige Mrs Hudson, who was getting the fire going.

"Hello John." She said. "Is it snowing out there yet?"

"Sorry, not yet. It's sort of… grey-ish and damp-ish."

"Grey-ish and damp-ish." Sherlock repeated, scornfully. "No wonder your blog has so many readers, with such an eloquent turn of phrase."

"Here's another eloquent phrase: Piss off." John answered. Sherlock huffed in amusement and set his violin down. Compared to the first time they had done this, when he had been worrying about Adler- whether he knew that was what it was or not- and John had planned it in an attempt to distract him, Sherlock seemed in a much better mood. John wasn't convinced it would last, once the guests arrived. There was Molly and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson who were all safe territory, but then there was not only Mycroft and Edith to contend with but Lestrade's wife, Lucy. It was Sherlock Lestrade was worried about, though he phrased it more kindly. Sherlock was hardly sensitive to the needs of others and given his none-too-supportive comments about his marriage the year before, Lestrade wasn't sure how the two of them would mix. John had reassured him that Sherlock would be on his best behaviour, as both Mrs Hudson and Edith would be there; both of whom seemed to have the peculiar effort of tempering his worst impulses. The only thing John could liken it to was when a disobedient child was in the presence of a favoured teacher and suddenly settled down. He was careful of them.

Mycroft, however, brought out the very worst in him. Sherlock was usually above acting out of spite, but not when his brother was involved. John couldn't help looking on the evening as a sort of social experiment, to see how it all balanced out.

Mycroft and Edith were the last to arrive, as it worked out. Lestrade arrived first with his wife, who greeted John practically, performing the social necessities and then patiently waiting for him and her husband to finish their small talk so they could go upstairs. Molly was next to arrive, dressed a lot more casually than the year before. John wished she hadn't. She looked nice, in a long, slightly sparkly woolly jumper and jeans, large looped earrings and tinsel in her hair. It was entirely appropriate and John could only imagine the agony that had gone into choosing the outfit. It would have been the question of whether she dressed to the nines again in defiance of _what happened last year_, to show she didn't care and therefore reminding everyone of it; or of dressing down, to show she wasn't still trying, and therefore looking like she had been scared out of it, and reminding everyone of _What happened last year_. But, if she had dressed up again, Sherlock would have remembered _what happened last year_ and not commented. Instead, now he would almost certainly say something about the change. John would have followed her up to the flat after hanging her coat up to try and limit the damage, but at that moment the Holmes' arrived.

"Hello, Doctor Watson." Edith said cheerfully, coming in first. It had started to rain and, from the looks of it, Mycroft had been holding his umbrella over them both, which he was now busying himself in folding down. "I hope you don't mind, we brought Sally with us. She needed the walk and I'm sure she'll be glad to see her brother."

"No problem." John said, bending down to give the dog a fuss. It looked better kept than theirs, slightly podgy but well groomed and looking happy enough. He wondered if it was spoilt; it seemed that way. "Mrs Hudson's put Gladstone in her flat for the night, but I'm sure Salisbury can keep him company. Hello, Mycroft."

"Good evening, John." Mycroft said, pulling the door shut. Edith had begun to take her coat off, and to John's surprise, Mycroft turned to help her; as if it was quite natural for him to do so. It was good to see, refreshing somehow. John realised he had been expecting a certain distance between them.

"Is there somewhere I can put this, Doctor Watson?" Edith asked.

"I'll take it for you, Mrs Holmes." He replied. "And you really can call me John."

"And you really can call me Edith." She laughed, but she didn't notice the look Mycroft was giving John from behind her.

There was an awkward pause, just slightly too long.

"I think maybe I'll stick to Mrs Holmes." John said. Mycroft handed him the coat along with his own.

The evening went more smoothly than John could have really hoped. Sherlock was not very pleased to see his brother, but, after a brief exchange of thinly and even-more-thinly veiled insults, ending with a pleading _'Sherlock…' _from Mrs Hudson and a murmured, disapproving _'Mycroft.' _from Edith, the Holmes brothers each settled down. Mycroft and his wife began by talking to the Lestrades, but as the evening wore on, John thought they barely spoke to each other. Mycroft ended up in some sort of heated debate about some topic or another with Sherlock that John was too scared to go anywhere near, in spite of the looks begging for help from Lestrade who seemed to have managed to get himself stuck in the middle. Edith, on the other hand, seemed to have really taken a shine to Molly, the two of them sitting together on the settee deep in conversation, broken by laughter and pauses to show off pictures of their respective pets. The groups formed and reformed as people mingled, but it seemed like John would be disappointed in his hope of seeing how Edith and Mycroft interacted as a couple.

That wasn't quite true, though. They may have barely spoken to each other, but John did not have to be Sherlock Holmes to notice the constant awareness between them. It might have been something tiny and insignificant, Edith wordlessly touching his shoulder as she passed with a fresh drink, Mycroft's occasional glances in her direction, checking from time to time that she was alright, but not overly concerned. John felt unexpected relieved. Somewhere inside, perhaps, he had been doubting that the match was one of love, but not anymore. They barely spoke, barely touched, and yet it was obvious. There was an easy familiarity between them, a relaxation and confidence that made it seem like they had been married much longer then they had, lives fairly independent but a quiet and deep affection between them, the kind that did not feel it necessary to declare itself, not in public, possibly not even in private. They were, John decided, the type of couple that you would have seen fifty years ago or a hundred, they were the kind of unspoken devoted Victorian couple that were the heroine's parents in Sunday afternoon period dramas. There was somehow a sense that they were out of their time.

He could just imagine it. Their lives as they would have been at the end of the nineteenth century seemed to drop like a curtain before him. Mycroft would have had bachelor lodgings near his work and the Diogenes club, of course, but he would have moved back to the family home after his marriage and take the train, the reliable, affordable Victorian train, into town every day. Edith would have found ways to occupy herself, no doubt, she would be a pillar of the WI or the Parish Council or both, always trying to raise funds for this or that, the kind of woman that wrote gently disapproving letters to newspapers or politicians about the appalling conditions in the East End or the treatment of workers in some distant part of the Empire Whitehall had forgotten they owned. Not that he had ever known the real Edith, modern day Edith, to be particularly politically galvanised, but then she had her job to occupy her time with and do a little bit of good and, relatively speaking, things weren't so bad now. But he could imagine her as a Victorian lady with a cause, with the reputation of being a good woman, a friend to all, certainly not vulgar enough to ally herself with the New Woman or the suffragettes- if they were even around by then, John wasn't entirely sure- but, all the same, putting in a quiet word here and there. He could imagine her, giving a dinner party for all the lonely bachelor politicians, softening them up with hearth and home, and then, over the coffee, when conversation died to a murmur, saying ever-so sympathetically _"I'm very sorry about your problems in Ireland, Mr Gladstone, but you really must sort out these votes for women, you know._" And someone would overhear and make a joke of it, and ask who the women would vote for, and she would say, quite seriously "_Why, we would vote for whoever had given us the right to do so." _And suddenly, although they would laugh, the men from opposing parties would shift uncomfortably in their seats and wonder that, if one of them was going to have to give in eventually, if it wouldn't be better to go first. And then Mycroft would step in, find an excuse to make her leave the room just for a moment, to fetch more coffee or brandy or cigars and they would suddenly wonder if the views were really hers or if they were his, who was more a mystery to them than anything in the corners of the world. Edith would reappear, ask after someone's sister or mother and everything would be smoothed over, with the men hardly noticing that the cause had unobtrusively inched forward again, just by the smallest fraction.

He was snapped out of his bizarre imaginings by Edith herself and he jumped slightly guiltily, wondering if she had somehow known his thoughts. Still, maybe if the blog ever fell through he could make a living out of novels. Sherlock always said he had no imagination, but evidently he was wrong. John felt fairly proud of his on-the-spot daydream, something could be made out of it.

But it couldn't be Mycroft and Edith. He couldn't picture Mycroft in a top hat and one of those cape things without wanting to giggle. Although admittedly, he had had a few beers. They all had. Edith, until just now, had been in fits of laughter with Mrs Hudson, having released Molly to Sherlock. Now she was in front of him.

"Sorry to interrupt your thoughts, Doctor Watson." She said, holding up an empty wine bottle. "What are we doing with the finished ones?"

"I'll take it." John said, getting up. "Another?"

"Ohhh, yes please, wonderful!" She'd had a little to drink too, John rather suspected. Nobody was drunk, but nobody seemed to be entirely sober- except, of course, Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft had evidently decided his wife had had enough, however, because he was speaking to her in a low voice when John returned and when John put the glass of wine in her hand, Mycroft casually took it out again an handed her a glass of water in exchange. Edith rolled her eyes at him, but didn't seem to mind. Feeling out of place, John left them to it and went to chat to the others. Somewhere by the kitchen doorway, the two of them carried on speaking quietly to one another about nothing much at all, or so it seemed. It warmed the heart.

John missed having a girlfriend, though he didn't particularly miss any of his exes. Perhaps he should ask Edith to set him up with someone, as she seemed intent on Sherlock and Molly getting together. She had spent all night carefully drawing them into conversation and now they were talking comfortably- indeed, Sherlock was unusually chatty- she had slipped away. It was counter-productive, though, if the glares Sherlock was sending her way were anything to go by. Edith meant well, but Sherlock would probably ignore Molly for the next month now to prove his point. It was a shame, especially considering John had caught Sherlock actually _buying _and even _wrapping _a present for Molly the other day. He probably still felt a little guilty about the year before. John would make sure he gave it to her, but perhaps after Edith had gone.

Oooooooooooooo

A/N: A quick note to say, Lucy Lestrade is a character my sister Ashtrees uses in her fanfiction 'The Spectrum Detective', a series of one –shots about Sherlock's life as someone with Asperger's Syndrome. It's the kind of story that educates you when you aren't looking, but it's really interesting and good fun; and without spoilering, Lucy is a character I really like. Please check it out if you haven't already :)


	9. Eighth Cup: Family

A/N: I have my last exam tomorrow! So instead of studying, I decided to write fluff. In which we see the return of slightly!sexist Mycroft and introduce the pelicans of St James' park in central London.

This chapter would have been much easier to write if Mycroft was the sort of person that would bother learning his nephews' names. But ah well. Onward!

Eighth Cup: Family

It was perfectly true when people said that getting married meant not only tying yourself to one person, but to their entire family. Edith did her best with Sherlock, probably more than Sherlock really wanted her to, and in return Mycroft was sometimes obliged to spend time with her family. And so it was that on the sunny afternoon of the Sunday of the August Bank Holiday weekend, Mycroft found himself standing in St James' park with his wife, his dog, his sister-in-law, his sister-in-law's husband and their two young sons. One was barely six months old and as such had spent much of the day in his pushchair, and the other, just past two, had been eagerly toddling about and been very reluctant to ever go back into his own pushchair. It reminded Mycroft a little of when his brother had been that age; you turned your back for a moment and he would have disappeared to investigate something he had spotted in the distance or an interesting hole in the ground. His nephew did not have Sherlock's intelligence or concentration, but he certainly had his curiosity. One of the adults had been forced to go and retrieve him more than once; but if they tried putting him in the buggy then he would scream.

Privately, Mycroft thought it was madness. First of all, to have two children so close together that they both needed pushchairs at the same time was, in his opinion, very poor planning; and secondly, bringing them to _London _for a weekend break was a ludicrous idea. London was not built for pushchairs, not on its crowded thoroughfares nor on its public transport and it would be extremely easy to lose a child there. He had kept a wary eye on his nephew the whole day. They should have taken the children to the seaside and let them play on the beach. Or even just stayed where they lived, in a country village, and let the children roam across the fields. London simply wasn't the place to bring children for a holiday and his sister and brother-in-law were beginning to show the strain. Mycroft felt a little smug at their increasing stress. They had, after all, dragged him away from work at a vital time, when there were problems of spies and national security coming out of the woodwork, and pulled him out on a day that was far too hot to do some of the tourist traps, when they were the most crowded full of obnoxious people. It made him feel slightly superior to hear them snapping at each other when he knew that he and Edith had hardly had a cross word between them. He did feel a little sorry for Edith, though. She had been really looking forward to seeing her sister and the children, and the day was being rather spoilt by the heat, the crowds, crying children and fraying tempers.

In the park, however, they finally had a moment's peace. The father had gone off to try and buy them all drinks and the mother had shortly afterwards departed to try and find somewhere to change the baby. They had been left waiting by one of the railings along the edge of the water, Mycroft resting a hand on the handle of the remaining pushchair to make sure nobody ran off with it, Salisbury's lead round his wrist, and Edith was crouched down next to their nephew, holding onto him with one wary hand and with the other pointing out the various wildlife that lived in the park, so used to people now that they were almost completely tame. He seemed delighted by the ducks and even Mycroft couldn't keep himself from indulging a smile when the child laughed his head off at a passing squirrel. It was the sort of laughter only a child could laugh, as he watched the squirrel dart about, where no adult could quite understand what was so funny, the kind of laughter that didn't worry about what people thought, that had no understanding of this being a public place, didn't even understand that others may not find the squirrel as hilarious as he did. Mycroft wondered if he had ever laughed like that, even as a child, and decided he probably hadn't. Sherlock had, on one occasion when he was about eighteen months old and Mycroft was almost nine. It was one of the many times that Sherlock had been exploring with his head down a rabbit hole- he had been fascinated by them as a child- and Mycroft had pulled him out and attempted to scold him and at first Sherlock had been duly ashamed- he had been capable of it once- but then something Mycroft had done or said set him off laughing uncontrollably.

Sherlock had been so much easier to deal with back then. Mycroft did not like older children, but he did like babies. Contrary to what people seemed to say, babies were easier. They cried, but only because they were too hot or too cold or hungry or thirsty or bored or tired or frightened or wanted attention. As children got older the options increased and it got infinitely more complicated. Besides, there was something pleasing in the way babies looked and behaved; not that he would admit it. Standing in the crowded park on that Sunday afternoon, listening to his wife and nephew laughing at a squirrel, Mycroft felt almost relaxed. Then, naturally, a pelican came and ruined it.

The birds were a common enough sight in St James' park and were usually no more of a nuisance than the ducks, except when people insisted on feeding them. They were fairly sedentary birds in the main, and it was rare to see one walking, yet alone flying about and dropping down suddenly and without warning in front of toddlers. The child, probably having never so much as seen a pelican in a picture before, was understandably terrified of the creature, almost as big as him, with its enormous beak flapping in his direction as it settled itself after the heavy landing. It sat there entirely unruffled as Salisbury barked excitedly at it and Mycroft's nephew, quite understandably this time, burst into tears.

Mycroft looked at the pelican resentfully. He was tired of all this crying. He had just wanted some peace and now he had to try and coax the dog into calming down. Next to him, Edith had taken the infant into her arms and was cooing at him, trying to comfort him. She stroked his hair and tried to jolly him out of it, telling him nothing was going to hurt him and that the pelicans were too funny looking to be frightening. With the child in one arm, she managed to fish out some of the bread they had brought for the ducks, and began to give it to the pelican, all the while reassuring their nephew that it was all okay.

They were standing right next to a sign explicitly telling them not to feed the pelicans, but Mycroft decided not to say anything. Sometimes needs must. Indeed, it seemed to work, because soon their nephew, still sniffling, was throwing bread to the pelican himself, and his sobs were slowly changing back to giggles.

Edith, Mycroft thought, looked very right with a child in her arms. It suddenly occurred to him that he wanted children. He didn't think it was a new desire, but simply one that had gone unacknowledged until now. Well, it was hardly something that people would expect of him; he himself had never thought about it before, not even since his marriage. He and Edith were so rarely intimate with one another that she hadn't even bothered to begin taking the contraceptive pill- as far as he was aware, anyway, they never talked about such things. His wife was shy about marital relations, and he himself did not have much interest. Besides, he was so often home late and went up to bed so long after her that she was usually asleep when he came in. They had never talked about children either and he suddenly wondered why not. Edith, like most women, clearly liked them. Perhaps she just assumed he didn't. It wasn't true, though. He had a frankly natural aversion to teenagers and any child old enough to complain and he certainly could see no enjoyment in sticky fingers and smeared faces and grass stained knees, but never the less, he liked young children. He liked their wonder and curiosity, their simplicity. They were refreshing, untouched by the burdens of modern life and modern care.

The sun was obviously bad for him. He was starting to wax lyrical. He decided it was time to broach the subject before he strayed any further into the poetic.

"Edith." He began, subconsciously holding Salisbury's lead a little bit tighter. He really had no idea how she would react. She turned to face him- but something else caught her attention: the return of her sister and the baby. And Edith, perhaps thinking he had got her attention simply to tell her this, turned away from him to begin telling her sister the story of the pelican scare.

Mycroft released the pushchair as his now exhausted nephew was finally persuaded into it, reminding him somehow of the days when a restless Sherlock had simply been allowed to wander amongst and explore the boxes in the attic until there came the thud that indicated he had at last fallen asleep where he'd stood. Surely no child could be as high maintenance as that. Surely any child, no matter what challenges they presented, could be as difficult as Sherlock. In comparison it would seem easy, particularly with a good woman at his side. And she was a good woman, he had no doubt about that. Better than he deserved. If she knew the sorts of things he had been forced to do at work recently, trying to stop leaks to foreign spies- well. It was better she didn't. But she was a good wife, and she would, he was sure, make a good mother.

When his brother-in-law provided a distraction by returning with the drinks, Mycroft took advantage of the opportunity in passing Edith her drink to squeeze her wrist affectionately. She looked surprised, and then smiled, and Mycroft knew that that night they would go upstairs together, and perhaps they would talk it over before they turned out the light.


	10. Ninth Cup: Dishwasher

A/N: A short one today, based on true events. XD Also, because someone asked me in a review, I'm using as a basis for their ages Edith being 24 and Mycroft being 35. Obviously time passes while they're married, but that's where it started. Of course, in the settee chapter, I accidentally called them 28 and 39, but sssh, let's ignore that. Sorry :/

Ninth Cup: Dishwasher

For all the domestic comforts of married life, suddenly having to share your space with another person would inevitably bring some disagreements. In the Holmes' household, there were two- in both cases, Mycroft noted, it was _Edith_ who had the problem.

The first was his smoking. He did not smoke much, just one cigarette a day after dinner, to help him relax. If ever he had one in the middle of the day, you knew things were bad. He had a very intense, highly stressful job, and frankly, it was comfort eating or comfort smoking. If anything, his one-a-day habit probably did him less harm than the way he had eaten in his early twenties. Edith, however, hated it, if the looks he got every time he lit up were anything to go by. He would deny her almost nothing, but there was only so far he could accommodate her. Thankfully, she never actually said anything, so they could ignore the issue and carry on as usual.

The dishwasher, though, that was different. They seemed to talk- not even argue, just talk- endlessly about the dishwasher, a testament to the dull realities of domestic life. He'd found out at Christmas that the Lestrades had exactly the same dispute, so it wasn't just them. Mycroft still wasn't entirely sure if that made it better or worse.

In simple terms, the argument was this: Edith (and Lestrade) felt it was pointless using a dishwasher when there were only two of them, whereas Mycroft (and, it seemed, Lestrade's wife) thought that as they already had a dishwasher, they might as well make use of it. Edith would say there was no point in switching it on and using all the water when at most it was only ever half full, and usually less. Mycroft pointed out that the same could be applied to the washing machine, but, according to his wife, that was different, as she pointed out that at least the washing machine had a setting for a half load. In return, Mycroft would say that they didn't have to put the dishwasher on after every meal, they could leave it until there was more in it, but she would say they would run out of plates. And so the debate continued.

Then one day, the dishwasher broke down and Edith's victory seemed assured. Mycroft had every intention of getting another, but in the meantime everything had to be washed by hand. It was an extremely tedious job, and Edith did most of it as she worked far fewer hours than he did; but after dinner in the evenings he felt obliged to help. Admittedly there was something nice about standing by her side, in companionable silence, drying up what she washed. There wasn't much and she soon finished, emptying the water out of the washing up bowl and stealing a corner of his tea towel to dry her hands on.

"Am I allowed to put my wedding ring back on now?" She asked, sounding exasperated. Mycroft nodded, refusing to rise to it. Just because most people happily let their rings get soaked in the shower or the sink didn't mean it was a good idea. Come to think of it, that was another thing they disagreed on- but she always obliged him. Once her ring was back securely on her finger, she went to change the bin liner, which was now full. She lifted it out, and it was dripping.

For a moment, they both looked stupidly at it. There was no reason for it to be dripping- no liquid went into it; they changed it every day, so nothing could have putrefied. And yet, there it was, making a mess of their kitchen floor.

"Uggh." Mycroft said, eloquently.

"Never mind urrgh, get another bag!" Edith said, helplessly, and Mycroft obliged. They probably were hurrying too much for their own good, as the first one he tried to pull off the roll ripped as he pulled it and the next wouldn't open. He was fumbling. He did not fumble. He found that he was resenting not just this bin bag, or the one that was dripping, but every bin liner ever. He decided he was going to start recycling and composting, just out of spite towards the companies that made their bin liners in the thinnest plastic possible, so that they would rip as soon as you put in anything with corners and leak who knew what over your kitchen-

"Mycroft, come on, it's going everywhere!" Edith said despairingly. He got the bag open and with some little difficulty they got the offending bin liner into it, though it took considerable team work. It kept folding or billowing awkwardly and basically made something simple far more complicated and more time consuming than it should have been. When it was finally securely bagged and tied, they were still left with the puddle on the kitchen floor.

"How revolting." Edith sighed. "I'll deal with it in a minute, I'll just take this out." She stepped awkwardly over the puddle, Mycroft offering a steadying hand on her back, and she disappeared out of the back door in the direction of the bins they used for storage between refuse collections. Mycroft was left alone with the puddle.

He couldn't just leave it, of course. Edith might have said she would deal it and probably had every intention of doing so, but that didn't mean she wouldn't have been cross if he didn't help. Wondering what he had been reduced to, Mycroft found some kitchen towel and began to mop up the excess.

Of course, naturally, it was only then he realised they had not yet put a new bag into the bin and he had nowhere to put the sodden bits of kitchen roll. He was beginning to feel distinctly harangued. There was nothing to do but leave the filthy paper on the floor while he put the new bag in. But just as he came to this conclusion, he heard a strange noise at the back door, followed by a knock that suggested his wife was also feeling the strain of the situation. It was a _drop everything and come now _kind of knock, so he did just that. He opened the door wondering why Edith had not simply let herself in, but the deduction was an easy one. Rather than having her hand on the door handle, the door handle from her side of the door was _in _her hand. It had simply come off. Her fingers were covered in oil from the inside of the mechanism, and she was still, inexplicably, holding the bin liner.

"It's collection day tomorrow!" She said, as if this was the more important fact. "It needs to go out the front! Also, the door handle's broken." Mycroft still felt this last statement should have been more than an afterthought, but then, it was remarkable that they should both, when they had never forgotten before, forget the collection day simultaneously. The puddle had distracted them. It was starting to ooze back out of the paper now, and spread. Mycroft went to go back to the new bin liner.

"Wait, I need you to put washing up liquid on my hand." Edith said.

"What?"

"To get the oil off. Quickly. Before it dries."

It was one of those moments, Mycroft thought, that illustrated how ludicrous life after marriage could be when one found oneself applying a liberal amount of washing up liquid over one's spouse's hands. At least the trick worked.

By the time they were settled in the lounge and Edith brought him his drink almost like the old days at the club, the whole debacle had taken almost half an hour and they had a broken door. They would have to get a tradesman in to fix it. Mycroft had a strong dislike of tradesmen. He didn't like having strangers in the house, knowing they could be anyone, and he didn't like that Edith didn't seem to quite understand what all the fuss was about. It was true that Mycroft preferred to keep her in the dark about his work- he never talked about it and even she didn't know just quite how important he was, or how many enemies he had, among the people that knew of his existence. She never quite understood why he would politely refuse to be in any casual photographs when they saw her family, why he only allowed one photograph of their wedding. He suspected it both confused and upset her, or perhaps his 'camera shyness' just frustrated her. Still, he would rather she thought he was being difficult than realise that he was potentially at risk. There was more to protecting one's wife than mere financial provision.

He was surprised out of his reverie by the gentle warm grip on his hand that indicated Edith had taken his. Sometimes he thought he knew her fingers as well as his own. It was a pleasant thought.

"Luke can probably fix the door, if you don't want tradesmen in." She said. Mycroft frowned. "But I agree."

"Agree?"

"That was a nightmare." She said, settling back into her chair. "Let's get a new dishwasher."

Mycroft smiled but didn't say anything. It did not do to gloat in marriage, at least not out loud.


	11. Tenth Cup: Pregnant

A/N: Tried something slightly different with this chapter, let me know if it works :)

Tenth Cup: Pregnant

Edith was feeling fine until she crouched down to feed the dog. Mycroft was upstairs getting ready for work, but they would have breakfast together before he left. She put out their juices, cereal and fruit on the table and then, after making a fuss of the appearing Salisbury, put her bowl onto the counter, emptying a tin of dog food into it and crouching to replace it on the floor.

Suddenly she caught a whiff of the food and even though it had never bothered her before, it made her stomach curdle. She swallowed, steadying herself against the fridge, not quite trusting herself to get up before the nausea had passed. Salisbury picked up on her discomfort and came and nuzzled against her. Edith scratched the dog's head absently, trying to gear herself up to standing upright again.

Mycroft arrived at that moment.

"Edith? What are you doing down there?"

"Just giving Sally a fuss." Edith said, quickly getting back to her feet, thankful that the feeling of nausea seemed to have gone as quickly as it had come. Mycroft was peering at her, analysing her. Uncomfortable, she turned her back, busying herself with pouring the coffee.

Mycroft's analysis, however, was not in vain. She had been holding her mouth when he came in, as if worried she might be sick, and as she had straightened up her hand had gone to her stomach. Her body knew what she herself did not, and she was moving carefully because of it. Now that he looked, there were slight, minute changes to her figure and stance that seemed to suggest his theory was correct. It was impossible to be sure without proper medical testing, of course, but he found it a high probability that his wife was with child. She seemed surprised when he kissed her cheek out of nowhere before sitting down, but really, he couldn't help it. He was delighted, even more than he had expected to be.

He couldn't _say _anything, of course. He couldn't deprive her of the experience of gradually suspecting, of testing, and finally of telling him. He had to hide his delight under his usual impassive mask, pretend he didn't know, and go about his business as usual. He drank his coffee, ate his breakfast and pretended to read the newspaper, but really, he couldn't keep his eyes off his wife. She was definitely moving instinctually more carefully. He was almost sure of it.

"I should be able to get away earlier today." He said, both of them ignoring the fact that, as it was Saturday, he should not by rights have been going in at all. He would have to try and cut back once the child was born, but unfortunately, the business of intelligence and governance did not keep to office hours. They still suspected there were spies going after top-level officials, and they had to be rooted out. "What are your plans?"

"I should be home by lunch time." Edith said. "Luke is back in London so we're going for a quick coffee. Oh, and I have to return that book I borrowed, so I'll pop into Sherlock's on the way. I'll tell him you said hello."

"I didn't say hello." Mycroft frowned.

"I'll tell him anyway." She smiled. Mycroft turned to glance out of the window. The skies were distinctly grey. Torrential rain could not be far off.

"Take a car, Edie." He said. "If you don't want to wait for the driver to come out, then call a cab. Don't walk in this weather."

"It's not raining, is it?"

"Not yet, but it will." Draining his coffee, he stood to leave. To her even greater surprise, he kissed her again, on the forehead this time. "Take care." He said, sternly. She came into his arms for an embrace.

"I always do." She said. "Is something wrong? Whatever's the matter?"

"Nothing." He said. "Just take care."

If Edith thought Mycroft was acting strangely, it was nothing on Sherlock's behaviour when she arrived at their flat. John was just on his way out to the supermarket as she arrived and greeted her as warmly as always, but when she came to knock on the flat door, Sherlock acted very oddly indeed. He opened it, started to say something, looked at her, and then slammed the door in her face.

Edith was not quite sure what to make of this.

Inside, Sherlock began texting.

**SENT- 10:03 AM**

**Is it his? SH**

_10:03 _

_What? JW_

**SENT- 10:04 AM**

**The baby. SH**

_10:06_

_Whose baby? JW_

**SENT- 10:06 AM**

**I don't know, that's why I'm asking. SH**

_10:09_

_If you've kidnapped a baby I'll kill you. Do we need baked beans? JW_

**SENT- 10:09 AM**

**No. They're disgusting. SH**

_10:09_

_Babies or beans? JW_

**SENT- 10:10 AM**

**Both. SH**

_10:12_

_We're having beans. Leave them alone this time. JW_

**SENT- 10:13 AM**

**So is it his baby, John? SH**

_10:14 _

_WHOSE baby? What baby? Client? JW_

**SENT- 10:14 AM**

**Edith's. SH**

_10:19 _

_What? She didn't look pregnant. JW_

**SENT- 10:19AM**

**She is. SH**

_10:20 _

_There's no way you can possibly tell that by looking at a woman who isn't showing yet! JW_

**SENT- 10:20 AM**

**John. **

_10:22_

_Oh right, sorry, forgot you were Sherlock Holmes, master detective and consulting midwife. Delete whatever long text explaining your cleverness you're typing, I don't want any more of your boasting filling up my inbox. JW_

**SENT- 10:26 AM**

**Fine. Then tell me if Mycroft is the father. SH**

_10:27_

_Of course he is! Who else would it be?! JW_

**SENT- 10:28 AM**

**It could be anyone. Mycroft wouldn't mind her sleeping around, but a child would complicate matters. SH**

_10:29_

_Judging by the way he looked at me at Christmas, he would definitely care. I can't believe Edith had affairs! JW_

**SENT- 10:29 AM**

**It is easier to believe than the idea that Mycroft willingly slept with her. SH **

_10:31_

_No. _

**SENT- 10:32 AM**

**John? SH**

_10:33_

_No as in no, I am not discussing your brother's sex life with you over text!_

_10:33_

_Or in any other context at all, ever!_

**SENT- 10:34 AM**

**You can't believe he'd want children. SH**

_10:35 _

_Well, accidents happen… JW_

**SENT- 10:35 AM**

**Not to Mycroft. SH**

_10:38_

_To everyone! And for the record, they're married. Married couples have sex and children. Of course it's his. Stop being such a tit about it. JW_

**SENT- 10:42 AM**

**Fine. I'll go and let her in. SH**

_10:43 _

_Let her in from where?! Sherlock! You'd better not have said any of this to her! JW_

**SENT- 10:46 AM**

**Odd. She seems to have gone. SH**

Oooooooooooo

Mycroft had been waiting for Sherlock to text him of course, but his brother was being disappointingly slow. Just as he reached for his phone to check it again, it buzzed in his hand. Sherlock was, naturally, his usual supportive and encouraging self.

**SENT- 10:58 AM**

**What have you done? SH**

_Sent: 11:03 AM_

_I don't think you really want me to answer that question. M_

**SENT- 11:03 AM**

**You're a fool. SH**

_Sent: 11:07 AM_

_And you are absolutely forbidden to tell her. M_

**SENT- 11:08 AM**

**Someone has to. SH**

_Sent: 11:08 AM_

_Don't you dare, Sherlock. There are certain processes women like to go through in these situations. Let her realise in her own time. M_

**SENT- 11:09 AM**

**She's so slow she probably won't realise until it's born. SH**

Mycroft frowned at that. It was rather insulting; and it was one thing for Sherlock to insult him- he would expect nothing less- but to insult Edith was quite another matter. Especially as what he said was untrue. His wife was many things, but she was not an airhead. Mycroft decided to ignore it to deal with later, probably by giving Inspector Lestrade a few pointers about the next case he would otherwise have got Sherlock in. It would certainly take his brother's arrogance down a notch if the inspector solved a difficult case all on his own. It was a suitable punishment.

Sherlock must have felt at least a shred of remorse, however- or John arrived home and found out what had been going on- because some time later Mycroft's phone buzzed again.

**SENT- 12:02 AM **

**Pregnant women are vulnerable. Be careful. SH**

Mycroft could only assume this was Sherlock-ese for 'congratulations', but it was good enough. For once he felt quite amicable towards his brother, and decided not to bother with his petty revenge. Until he saw Edith, who told him that she was worried she had somehow upset Sherlock because when she arrived he slammed the door in her face and did not open it again. Mycroft did not know and did not really care what had been going on; Sherlock had been unforgivably rude, and for that, he was getting a month of Lestrade being unusually competent.


	12. Eleventh Cup: Bomb

A/N: Sooooo… I wonder, has anyone been picking up on the little tiny hints dotted here and there in the last few chapters that something big and ludicrously melodramatic was on its way? Well, here it is! It needs more than a single one-shot though; right now I'm thinking it will be in three parts. But we'll see.

So. Ludicrous melodrama. Enjoy :P

Eleventh Cup: Bomb

"_And then the pink phone rang. It was a woman. She was crying. It turns out that whoever was organising all this had arranged for this woman to be kidnapped and wrapped in explosives. If she didn't say exactly what she was told to say...__"- 'The Great Game', The Personal Blog of Dr John H. Watson_

It had only been a few weeks, but so far, Mycroft was pleased with how Edith's pregnancy was progressing. She had realised the fact about ten days after he had, and had dragged him into the bathroom, full of excitement, to show him the positive pregnancy test, where he warmly congratulated her and had managed, it seemed, to convincingly hide the fact he had known all along. Edith had been delighted. He had been delighted. It was all they could do not to tell her family the good news; but Mycroft believed it was best to follow the advice of doctors and not make it generally known until after the first twelve weeks, where the chances of miscarriage were highest. Edith was eleven weeks now, they were going to tell her parents at the weekend. She was just starting to show; nothing too noticeable, just a slight round pudginess starting to make itself known. Most people wouldn't notice it yet, but Mycroft did. It pleased him. The human body was a remarkable thing.

His personal life, however, never entered the office; just as his work never entered his home, at least not when Edith was there. If anyone had noticed his wedding ring they didn't mention it. Mycroft considered the idea of 'work friends' to be an oxymoron. The less he and those he worked with knew about each other, the better.

Home was even distant from his mind that day. There was too much else to think about. Issues of national security, for one thing. People in top level positions being targeted. He had to work out who, and why.

_Top level officials. _That would be the most ridiculous thing, later. It had never even occurred to him that he might be one of them, he had been too arrogantly confident of his cleverness, his anonymity. He had believed himself to be invisible, untouchable, and by his belief, allowed them exactly what they wanted. He knew nothing about it until the phone on his desk rang.

"Yes?" He said. If someone had this number, they knew who he was.

There was a delay where no-one answered, save for the sounds of someone drawing in a shaky breath. He knew immediately who it was, somehow he knew by the catch of her breath it was Edith, but impossibly so. She didn't have this number, only his personal mobile. Mycroft immediately leant forward to press the button on the keypad that would silently alert the techies to the call and set them trying to trace it. He just hoped they could. "Edith?"

"Hello, darling." She sounded upset. Not just that, but there was something off about the tone and timbre of her voice. "I just called to tell you I love you."

Mycroft said nothing. The words weren't hers, he realised. She was speaking like she was reading them. Someone had her, but he would find them and see them killed. It was that simple.

But he had seen this before, he knew the drill. It wasn't Moriarty, but it was his technique. Probably, he realised, someone had read it on that damn blog. A copycat. Once he had his wife safe, he and John would be having words.

"Darling, are you there?" She said, in a gross imitation of her own voice. "I'm waiting for you to come home and-" A string of foul, sexual obscenities fell from her lips, filth being forced out of her. By the end of it, Edith had broken down in tears and Mycroft was gripping the phone so hard the plastic of the receiver was starting to creak under the pressure. It was rage unlike any he had ever known, but he could not bow to it. They could not know it was getting to him.

"Who are you?" He said, as indifferently as possible. "What do you want?"

_Indifference. _If that was what- necessarily- her captors had to hear, that was what Edith had to hear too. He hoped she knew, hoped she could tell, that it was all feigned. In a sudden flash of anger, he pressed the button to have the call traced again, wondering where the hell the technicians were, only to realise the button was unresponsive, rattling emptily in the socket. It wasn't connected to anything.

That was worrying. They were, or had been, inside the building. Probably one of the staff was on their pay roll. Whoever it was would not be spared.

"Well done, Mr Holmes. You worked it out." Edith was saying in the awful mechanical tones of someone who was reading to save their lives. "I knew you would. I've strapped a bomb to your… t-to your gold-digging whore of a wife. What fun. What face will you make when she… goes boom, Mr Holmes?"

"Make your demands." He said, as quietly as he could. Whoever it was putting words in her mouth was obviously a slow typer, however, as they were still forcing out their bile.

"I think it's disgusting, marrying someone half your age. Someone should teach you a lesson."

"Tell me what you want." He repeated.

"This is a warning, Mr Holmes. I want to hear your choice. I want her to hear your choice."

"What choice?"

"Whether or not you will save her life."

The tears had stopped but her voice was quavering. She was trying so hard to be brave and it broke his heart. At that moment he would have moved heaven and earth just to have her back to normal. But they were immovable. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. He did not have the least idea what he could do, except what he was told. He was as much in thrall to them as Edith was.

"Will you save her?"

"Obviously." He said, reluctantly. He didn't want to bow to their demands, but he was smart enough to know when he just had to take whatever they would give him.

"Don't be so hasty, Mr Holmes, to lumber yourself with... with this slut. She didn't put up any fight at all. We were drinking coffee again this morning. Alone. Together. Again." There was a note of pleading in her voice now, begging him not to believe what she was being forced to imply. She needn't have worried; he had been down that road before and now it was water off a duck's back. He knew Edith wouldn't stray, certainly not without him noticing. But coffee, alone. She had said she was meeting Luke again that morning. Luke, whom she knew well and saw often, but had only met since their marriage. Luke, who had been in his very house, even inside his front room, but whom Mycroft had never seen. Mycroft finally understood the appeal of cursing. He ran a hand over his face, a physical barrier to revealing he knew, just in case they had said it by accident- though he doubted it, every inch of this had been planned from the start.

"You shouldn't have involved her in state matters." He said, quietly. "You just broke the rules. Don't expect to be dealt with leniently."

"There are two bombs." Edith said, still reading. "Only one of them will go off. You get to… choose which. One is in the middle of Paddington Station… placed so many of the tunnels would collapse… hundreds and hundreds would die. The other one is… is… tied to your… adorable… adulteress."

"Stop it!" The words slipped out before he could stop them, because Edith was crying again, because she knew, as he knew, exactly how this would finally end.

"Which would you rather have on your conscience, Mr Holmes? The… death of your w-wife or the deaths of hundreds of strangers?"

Mycroft said nothing. He needed a bomb squad at Paddington immediately and was texting for one; if he could keep them talking until he had verified the claim-

"Who… explodes today, Mr Holmes? Edie or…all those poor commuters? You have ten seconds to decide."

"Please." He had never before in his life begged. He would now. He would leave all dignity behind if it meant- but she was being made to count down.

"Nine…" She choked. "Eight…"

No time to verify the threat. So he had to choose, right there and then, or risk the death of hundreds.

"I'm sorry, Edie." He said. The most ridiculous use of the words in the history of humanity. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but there was something else he had to say instead. "Disarm the bomb at Paddington Station. Detonate… the other."

On the day he proposed to Edith, it had been dry and clear and he had scarcely realised then how much he loved her. He had just wanted to get married, to have the domestic stability of a marriage. He had been seeing her for six months and found her engaging and caring and calm and had been fond of her; but he had grown to love her more and more every day since, except the rare days where they argued or she was irritating or in the way. There hadn't been too many of those, no more than any other marriage. There had certainly been less than he had been expecting when he had asked her, as they walked side by side along the Embankment, if she would ever consider being his wife. There had been no ring then, no fuss, just a purely conversational question. She answered that she would consider it, and then had slipped her hand into his and they had walked home in silence. He wasn't sure if that was the first time they had held hands or not, he couldn't remember. There was so many slight companionable touches and caresses between them now, he couldn't remember precisely when the last time had been either.

By his decision, he was also killing his child, though Mycroft was not romantic enough to imagine it as more than an embryo yet.

Like him, however alive it seemed, the child was still lacking a soul.

"I forgive you!" Edith gasped, and he knew it was her words, her last words that she risked saying because she was about to die anyway-

Nothing happened. The seconds ticked past. Paddington Station appeared on Mycroft's viewing screen as the squads swept the building, but there were only a few strategic points that could do even half of what the man who called himself Luke said it could. Mycroft had been made a fool of.

"M-Mycroft?" Edith whispered, herself still. "Nothing's happening… Oh!"

"Edith? Edith, what's wrong?"

"I… I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, I told you a lie." She said. She was reading again. "Your… wife won't… die in her bed. I will find her. I am coming for her. I will kill her. But not yet. This is your warning to back off or we will get her. Back off and choose your wife t-this time. Until then she will live, knowing… knowing that you did not choose her. Knowing that you value her life as… less. Enjoy… what is left… of your marriage."

She fell silent.

The squad at the station reported an all clear, although they were going to check again.

"M-Mycroft… ? It's gone off. The screen's turned itself off. But the bombs are still…" He could hear her swallowing, trying to keep it together, but his unflappable Edie was on the verge of a breakdown, or a panic, and he had no idea what to say to her.

"It's alright. Just calm down." He said, finally. "Do you know where you are?"

"It's… a bedroom. I can't see much, I'm tied to the bed. It's… almost empty. Quite tidy, but there's some dirty laundry in a pile. I can't see anything personal. I can't see much out of the window from here. There's, um, the sky, and… maybe the top of a tree and… um, um, the walls are a sort of blue… I don't want to move, Mycroft, I can't, if I struggle then the bombs-!"

"You're doing very well, Edith, just remain calm. Where were you taken from?"

"We were… having coffee… I started feeling dizzy, so Luke took me out to get some air… I was worried the baby was…"

"The baby will be fine, once you are." Mycroft said, when it became clear she wasn't going to finish her sentence. Edith never trailed off. Then again, she never cried or panicked either. "Where were you having coffee, Edith?"

"The Costa Coffee. By Marylebone Station. I saw the clock. It was twelve minutes past eleven when I came out."

"Alright." With a starting point to go from, and the time that elapsed between her capture and the phone call, it wouldn't be hard for his people to find her. He just had to concentrate on finding 'Luke'. "Don't worry, Edith. I'll send someone to find you immediately. They won't be long."

"Send someone?" She repeated. "C-can't you come yourself?"

_No. I'm going to find whoever did this to you and have them brutally murdered, but will never tell you more than that they have been imprisoned for life. _That was what he wanted to say. But she wanted him, remarkably and against all the odds. She had asked him to come. So, instead, he said "Of course. I'll find you. I promise."

"I'm sorry." She said. She was almost crying again. "I'm sorry, I was so stupid, I thought he was my friend, I told him all about you, about us, I didn't know, I was so stupid, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

"Edith." He said, as firmly as he could. "I need you to calm down."

He heard her take a sudden, sharp, scared intake of breath. He thought the screen had come back on, but instead, she spoke with her own words.

"I can hear voices." She whispered. "Downstairs. Some men just came in."

"I'll find you. Just keep quiet." He said. He had already used his mobile to send for someone to come to his office immediately. He would find her. He would not let her die, not yet, he would see her safe if it took every resource he had access to. He would find her.

But for now, all he could do was sit and listen to his wife's panicked breathing, as they both hoped that the men downstairs left her alone.


	13. Twelfth Cup: Revolver

A/N: I wrote this in one sitting to try and get it out sooner for you all, but it was running a little long so I've ended a little earlier than I wanted to. Don't worry, there's always part three. XD This is the immediate aftermath, part three will deal with the longer term. I didn't have time to proof-read this one, so please forgive any mistakes. :(

As always, thank you to everyone who reads/reviews/follows and I hope you enjoy! And bonus points this time for anyone who spots the canon quote XD

Twelfth Cup: Revolver

Contrary to what many readers of his blog seemed to think, and John had no idea why they were even interested, he and Sherlock did not share a bathroom. In fact, the flat did not even have a main bathroom, just an en suite in each of the bedrooms. Usually when John went straight up to his room, a level above the rest of the flat, after coming in, therefore, it was to use the facilities, not for anything in the bedroom itself. He left Sherlock in the lounge and headed upstairs.

She was being so quiet that John did not suspect that someone might be in there until he pushed the door open and heard her give a sort of terrified squeak. He froze in the doorway, assessing the situation, assessing the danger. It was Edith Holmes, Mycroft's wife. She was on her side, facing the door, her wrists tied to the frame of his bed with heavy, coarse rope. There was a screen, a tablet computer, propped up on the bedside table- dead- and she was wearing a hands-free telephone headset. She was also wrapped in what looked like bombs.

John took a deep breath, closing his eyes to allow the flashbacks to run and then get out of the way. It took less than a second. Disjointed, bright and brief images of the awful things he had seen in Afghanistan, the weeks he had been a medic with the travelling bomb squads. Then, of course, Moriarty had pulled this same trick. Strapped a bomb to him. He could almost smell the chlorine.

But they passed, gone as soon as they appeared. Now that was out of the way, he could concentrate on the situation at hand. Edith was looking at him, the terror ebbing just slightly from her eyes.

"Doctor Watson." She said, in a whisper. "Mycroft, it's Doctor Watson. Doctor, you don't know how glad I am to see you. I'm sorry to intrude like this. It's unforgivably rude." She tried to laugh but her voice broke and he could see she was trying desperately not to cry. John smiled reassuringly, his professional smile, and stepped towards her. She inhaled sharply. "Don't! Don't, the bomb might…"

"Hey, hey, it's okay." He said, as comfortingly as he could. He approached her, slowly, crouching down by the bed. "I was in the army, remember? I did a whole rotation with the bomb squad. I'm just going to take a look, I promise I won't touch it, okay?"

"Alright…" She said. John could hear the headset she was wearing buzzing as Mycroft- he assumed that's who it was, she had said his name earlier- said something to her. Hopefully it was something comforting and reassuring. More likely it was some sort of threat directed to him about what would happen to him if this went wrong. John decided to ignore it and shuffled a little to the left to get a proper look at what they had put on her.

It didn't take much of a look for him to work out that the bomb was a fake. It wasn't even a very good replica when seen up close, just plastic tubes and flashing lights. And they had brought her here, where she would certainly be found by friendly faces. Whoever had done this wanted to scare her, not hurt her. Though somehow John doubted _Edith _was the real target of their actions.

"It's not a real bomb, Edith." He said. "No explosives, just lights and tubes. It can't hurt you, I promise." He patted her arm soothingly. Her arms, he noticed, were white. It was probably the shock, but the reduced blood flow probably wasn't helping. They had tied her too tightly and now he knew it wasn't going to upset any explosives, it was time to get her hands free. "I'm going to untie you now, alright? Then we'll get the pack off. Hang on just a second."

"Thank you." She said, still sounding nervous but calmer than before. "But, um, M-Mycroft said the bomb disposal team is on the way, so we should wait, j-just in case it _is _real."

John would have answered, but it was that moment Sherlock decided to burst in waving a revolver around. _John's _revolver, which was kept in a _locked _drawer. Edith screamed on instinct. John didn't blame her.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" He shouted, snatching the gun back and putting the safety back on. Sherlock looked around, apparently confused.

"I realised there was someone else in your room." He said, sounding hurt at his less than warm welcome. "I thought you might be under attack."

"So you decided to come in here threatening to shoot?! What if I had been with my girlfriend?!"

"Then I would have known from the discarded clothing scattered up the stairs and the giggling from behind the door." Sherlock dismissed. "Edith? What happened? Who did this? Where were you? How long have you been here? Tell me everything."

"I… I've been so stupid…"

"Probably, but what's new? Tell me what happened."

"I… I…"

"Did you know who it was? Were you at home? Were you at work? Were you on your way somewhere? Did they-"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted, frustrated. He knew they meant well, but Edith was all but hyperventilating and the two brothers between them were not helping. "Shut up! Look at her, you aren't helping!"

Sherlock went to say something, looked at her, and then thankfully changed his mind. "Fine, you ask her." He said, grumpily. "I'll go and see what I can find."

"No, stay with her a minute." John said. "And be nice. Edith? I just want to talk to Mycroft a second, okay?" She nodded, and he took the headset off her, stepping out of the room before putting it on himself.

"John." Mycroft said. "I'm on a landline. I need to end this call so I can come."

"The bomb is a fake." John said, not beating about the bush. There was no point asking questions now, they could work out what happened later. Right now he wanted to look after Edith. "What you need to do is let me take it off her so I can calm her down."

"The bomb disposal team will be with you as soon as they've finished at Paddington Station."

"I told you, it's quite obviously fake!"

"Probably, yes. But excuse me if I want a second opinion, under the circumstances."

"Mycroft, you need to trust me."

"Trust you?" He sneered. "A general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications? I don't think so, John, not this time."

"Right, I'm an army doctor. I've seen hundreds of incendiary devices of all kinds and I am telling you that what they've strapped to her is _not _a bomb. But every second you won't let me take it off _just in case_, she's becoming more and more frightened that I'm lying, or wrong, and that she's about to die. Right now her system is being flooded with a cocktail of chemicals, none of which are particularly great for baby and some of which, if this carries on, might make her miscarry! Now are you going to let me help her or not?"

There was a pause as Mycroft thought it over. "Are you sure, John? Would you stake your life on it?" He asked, eventually. "Is that bomb a fake?"

"Yes. Look, even you could tell if you saw it."

"Very well." He said. "I will be there in approximately seventeen minutes. Look after her." The line went dead. John abandoned the head set and went back into the room.

To his surprise, Sherlock really was being helpful. He had finished removing the ropes, which lay discarded at his feet. Edith's wrists were red raw, bleeding slightly in places from where the rope had cut in- John made a note to have a look at them in a moment. Edith was reciting something. Some book of Sherlock's she had borrowed, it seemed. Sherlock must have come up with an excuse to have her tell him what it said, but it was a good move on his part. It would distract her, give her something to focus on and help her not to panic. John smiled gratefully at him, but Sherlock didn't respond, standing like a statue. He stepped aside as John approached. He was obviously dying to ask questions, but for once was managing to repress it.

"Hello, Doctor Watson." Edith said.

"Hello, Mrs Holmes." He said, only to see pain in her eyes. He couldn't begin to guess why, but he decided to stick with Edith for the time being. "I spoke to Mycroft, Edith, he thinks it's a fake bomb too. We're going to take it off, okay? Then we can go and get a nice cup of tea."

She nodded. John moved behind her to where the straps were done up.

"Okay, ready?"

"Are you sure it isn't real?"

"Absolutely certain." John said, firmly.

"He's right." Sherlock added. "Those lights are from a Christmas Tree."

Edith laughed, an edge of hysteria in it, but a laugh all the same. She nodded. "Ready."

"Alright. I'm going to count down from three, and then I'm going to take it off, okay?"

"O-okay."

Sherlock took her hand, glaring at John as if daring him to comment. John did not dare.

He wondered if Sherlock had ever in his life willingly held anyone's hand before.

"Three… two… one… now!" John undid the straps and lifted the pack off. Edith flinched, but of course, nothing happened. John threw the prop aside. "There, all done." He said, helping her sit up. Sherlock had snatched his hand away the moment she was free. "You okay?"

"All that and it wasn't even real." She said. "It wasn't real. It wasn't even a real bomb, and I made that awful call…"

"Who made you call?" Sherlock asked. "Someone targeting Mycroft? What happened?"

"Sherlock!" John said.

Sherlock went off to sulk and look for clues elsewhere and Edith went to the bathroom to tidy herself up. John put the bomb pack out of sight and went to put the kettle on. He was going to do what every patriotic Englishman would after such an adventure- make a cup of tea.

Ooooooooooo

A few minutes later and Edith was sat in Sherlock's chair by the fire drinking a cup of tea that John had sneakily put a few extra sugars into. She seemed to have calmed down considerably, although she was understandably quiet. Eight minutes had passed since the end of John's phone call and he decided it was time to breach the subject, as gently as possible.

"Mycroft will be here soon." He said, carrying on with rubbing the antiseptic cream into the abrasions on her wrist.

"Oh. Yes." She set her cup into the saucer that rested on the arm of the chair, twisting it to neatly align the handle with the chair. "Doctor Watson… how do you forgive someone? I told him I forgave him, but…"

She trailed off. When John was sure she wasn't going to say anything else, he asked, "Forgive who? The one who did this?"

"No." She was still playing with her tea cup. "Mycroft. You see, I… _they _asked him to choose. They said there were two bombs, one strapped to me and one in Paddington Station. He had to choose which one exploded."

"And… he didn't choose Paddington?"

"No. He did not choose Paddington."

John paused and squeezed her hand. "They're just very… logical. If it helps, I don't think Sherlock would have chosen me either. Mycroft just chose with his head. It doesn't mean it didn't hurt him."

"He did the right thing." She murmured. "But… I still can't…" She fell silent and began again. "This was all just to get at Mycroft. To warn him off whatever he's doing at work. Even bringing me here was because he once thought- never mind. They wanted to ruin our marriage; they just wanted to scare us and show what they can do if they want to. It was my fault. I told them everything. I was so stupid, I didn't know. It was this… friend of mine. He's called Luke. He said he was called Luke. I trusted him. I just… being married to Mycroft isn't always easy and I… I mean, I love him! I do, really, but…"

"Sometimes you need someone to talk to." John said. She nodded, but said nothing, and they fell silent just in time to hear the tail end of an argument from downstairs.

"You should never have gotten married, it doesn't suit you."

"I know."

Ooooooooooo

Sherlock had reluctantly left John to get answers out of Edith and was downstairs examining the front door to see how they had picked the lock. He should have noticed it sooner, but John had been the one to open the door and Sherlock hadn't been paying attention. There was barely any damage done to the door, however. This whole thing had been intricately planned, every detail accounted for.

Mycroft finally arrived and got out of the car, heading for the house like he wasn't even going to pause to acknowledge Sherlock. They went into the hall and he finally hesitated at the foot of the stairs.

"How is she?" He asked, and Sherlock watched him carefully. His brother was so good at guarding against Sherlock's powers of observation that he was usually almost impossible to read. Not today, though. Today Mycroft seemed… anxious. He was defeated. But his anxiety wasn't over Edith's health, he knew the bomb was a fake. No, he was worried that she wouldn't want to see him, Sherlock realised.

"Fine, but John won't let me ask her anything."

"Good. You're far too brutal." Mycroft took another step upstairs.

"You should have called me immediately." Sherlock frowned. "I've dealt with cases like this before. But you shouldn't have let her be involved. You are getting sloppy, Mycroft."

"She was simply getting coffee with a friend. How was I to know?"

"Because she is your wife and you are supposed to be paying attention!" Sherlock was frustrated, probably more about the fact someone had gotten into his home than anything else. It didn't mean he couldn't take it out on Mycroft. "I never understood why you married to begin with. I suppose you did it for your own selfish reasons, because you wanted a nice little quaint home to go to. You acted illogically, Mycroft, worse than that, you acted foolishly. You should never have gotten married, it doesn't suit you."

"I know." Mycroft said, and went upstairs. He found himself hesitating again in the open doorway. John stood up as if unsure whether to stay or to go, but Edith smiled, a shadow of her usual smile, but her best effort.

"Hello Mycroft." She said, trying to keep her voice steady. "How was work?"

And before anyone- least of all Mycroft- knew what he was doing, Mycroft had crossed the carpet and was holding her tightly to him. Slowly, cautiously, Edith hugged back and for a moment it was as if they would never let go.


	14. Thirteenth Cup: Mushrooms

A/N: Sorry for the delay, life has gone a bit nuts- once again, I don't even have time to proof read. Hopefully things will settle down in a week or two.

Thirteenth Cup: Mushrooms

Mycroft finished his drink and set the cup and saucer down on the table. Edith didn't so much as look up. He wouldn't have minded so much if she had been reading, as she always used to in the evenings. But ever since the incident two weeks before, her beloved books had all gone all but ignored and she would just sit quietly staring into space. She had started biting her nails, a habit Mycroft knew she detested. She was barely sleeping or eating; if it wasn't for the child, he thought, she might not have eaten at all.

He was worried, there was no denying it. But what could he do? Things had been strained between them to say the least, and it was no wonder. He was painfully aware that he had chosen to save strangers rather than her, and so was she. He could feel it between them like a wall. The conversation that had taken place in the car on the way home the day it all happened said it all, really: he had apologised, explained his reasoning; not only to save the most lives but because she would have hated him if he really had sacrificed them to save her; the guilt would have destroyed her. She had nodded and told him he'd done the right thing, but then added the awful words; _The problem is, Mycroft, I would have chosen you_. _I know it would have been wrong, but I would have chosen you anyway._ He hadn't been able to argue. There was nothing he could say to that. So he said nothing and neither did she. And now she didn't respond when he touched her, not without effort, any smiles were forced and short lived, and the hurt was deep.

Mycroft didn't know what to do about it. He supposed she just needed time, but if anything, she was getting worse as time went on, not better. He wished he could persuade her to see a doctor, but she would insist she was fine and the one time he had tried to push the issue she had got disproportionately angry and then burst into tears, neither of which were things she usually did; yet somehow she just couldn't see that this was wrong. Mycroft didn't know what to do with her when she was like that. In normal circumstances, if the situation got this desperate, he would have had John come round to visit and check on her incognito, but the good doctor was a terrible liar and he wasn't exactly in Mycroft's best books just then. As far as he was concerned, it was John's fault for writing in such detail on his ridiculous blog about what Moriarty had done and also about Mycroft's marriage. He had not named Edith, or even Mycroft, in the post but he had talked about Sherlock being talked into going to his brother's wedding and that, it seemed, had been enough to make people realise they could target his wife. John had apologised and removed the post about his wedding; yet refused to accept full responsibility. Mycroft was not in his good books either; although no doubt John would have overcome it if he thought Edith needed his help. He couldn't resist a pretty woman in need, even if she was married.

There were others helping them, however. Edith had gone back to work for one day before Lestrade had had a quiet word with the relevant people and had her signed off for stress. He'd tried to arrange counselling for her two with the on-site people at the Yard, although without success, and was personally handling the Yard's side of the investigation. Mycroft was grateful to him, realising that at some point Edith had assimilated Lestrade and his wife as their friends. When Edith was better, he thought, they would have them to dinner. It was a thought he held onto more and more. He had to keep thinking about the time after this.

Surprisingly, Molly Hooper had been a huge help too. Mycroft suspected that either Sherlock or John had told her what had happened and asked her to keep an eye on things; because although she and Edith had hit it off at Christmas and been firm friends ever since, Molly was popping round much more often lately. If not for her taking Edith out, Mycroft doubted his wife would have left the house at all. His world had certainly widened since his marriage. He was even starting to believe there were good people in the world. Ordinary people, but good ones.

Molly had been keeping him informed of how his wife was feeling, the things Edith couldn't tell him but Molly thought he needed to know. She obviously felt bad about it, as if she was betraying a trust, and Mycroft suspected she held back more than she told. As far as he could gather, however, most of his wife's trauma came from three main places: Firstly, that she felt stupid that she had trusted Luke, invited him into their lives and homes, been taken in and betrayed. Secondly, the problem, it seemed, was not so much that Mycroft hadn't chosen her as that she would have chosen him, and now she thought that perhaps they felt too differently about and had too diverse approaches their marriage. Finally, she was struggling with the guilt that she _wanted _to forgive Mycroft, but couldn't quite seem to do it.

But it was a good sign, he supposed. If she _wanted _to forgive him, surely she would be able to, in time. He didn't like her feeling guilt, of course, but he would rather that than fear. Luke had said that he would kill her, that Edith would not die in her bed. The threats, like the bomb case, were almost certainly completely empty; but Mycroft was just glad they were not weighing on her. The worst part of it, the thing that made him angriest of all, was that she had been forced to read all those awful things she had been made to say. She had read them from a screen, her mind had photographed them, and they would stay in her head forever. Under the circumstances, he thought, she was bearing up remarkably well. But then, that was his wife. She was unflappable, or very nearly. She would get better, he was convinced of it. She would get better and they would have the Lestrades over to dinner and she would be her old self by the time the baby was born. He was sure of it; he just wished he knew how to help.

"I'm going up to bed." He announced.

"Mm. I'll come up soon." She said.

Mycroft frowned slightly. He himself had lived on four or five hours sleep a night for years, but Edith had always made sure to get seven or eight, even before she was pregnant. She should have been in bed long ago.

"Edie, it's late." He tried. "The baby."

"The baby will be _fine _if I leave it another ten minutes!" She snapped. "I said I would be up soon and I will, stop nagging."

Mycroft sighed, but dropped the issue and stood, collecting his cup to go and put into their new dishwasher. "Goodnight, then." He said.

He made it as far as the door before Edith said "I'm sorry, Mycroft."

Mycroft stopped where he stood. He sensed this was a fragile moment. If he got this right, perhaps she would finally talk to him. On the other, if he got it wrong, she might never speak to him. He felt almost afraid as he turned to face her.

"You don't need to be sorry." He said, as gently as he could manage. "You have done absolutely nothing wrong, Edith."

"But I'm acting like such a fool!" She said. "Sherlock and Doctor Watson never reacted like this, and the bombs they had to deal with were real…"

"Doctor Watson is a solider." Mycroft reminded her. "Sherlock is a robot."

_And neither of them had to listen to their loved ones condemning them to death_. He added, silently. Edith chuckled.

"Don't be unkind, Mycroft." She said, and somehow sounded more like herself than she had since it had happened. She began picking at the pattern on the arm of her chair. "I was wondering… if you don't mind, I think it might do me good to go home for a while. Get out of London for a bit."

"Oh. Yes, of course. You'll stay with your parents?"

"Yes. I suppose you can't…?"

"I'm sorry." Mycroft said. "I need to be here to catch the one who did this to you, Edie."

"Of course. Very well." She said. She looked unhappy.

"Perhaps when this is all over, we could take a holiday together." Mycroft said suddenly, hesitantly covering her hand with his own. He didn't take holidays, he didn't even like them; but he would do it, for Edith. It could even be rather pleasant. To his relief, after a moment, her hand turned and she put her finger s through his, squeezing tightly.

"Yes." She said. "Perhaps."

"Come to bed, Edie." He said, quietly. "You need rest."

To his relief, she nodded and went with him. The next morning, he took her to the station to put her on a train home. They hadn't said much to each other, but he could see in her eyes that she was in two minds about her decision to go. As her train pulled into the platform, she suddenly took his hand.

"I will come back, Mycroft, I promise." She said, earnestly. "I won't let that mad man ruin this. I promise I'll come back."

"Of course." He said, though he didn't believe her. "Take as long as you need." He kissed her cheek, helped her lift her case onto the train, and left the moment the doors shut.

Ooooooooooo

Mycroft was at Baker Street again, something that was becoming annoyingly habitual lately. There were two reasons for this; first to update Sherlock on the case he had been so instrumental in solving, and secondly to have some changes to his will approved and witnessed, probably by John and Mrs Hudson. The man who called himself Luke was really a French-born spy of the name Firmin Loup; though it had taken a bit longer to work out who he was working for. In all likelihood, it was the CIA, who were routinely as suspicious of their allies as their enemies and had sent Loup and others in to check on the most rich, the most powerful and the most dangerous people in Britain. It was no wonder that they had been trying to scare Mycroft off their track; the whole thing was rather embarrassing and would be incredibly damaging to the already strained 'special relationship'. The USA may not have really needed the UK in the same way the UK needed the US, but they did need the hand hold in Europe. The whole thing would have to be swept under the democratic carpet, of course, but Mycroft would not allow Loup to go free. The man would be tried and condemned, having been caught working for a suitably vaguely defined 'terrorist organisation', which should be enough to satisfy the Prime Minister. The press wouldn't hear a word of it, of course. That was the way Mycroft worked. He had also had John and Sherlock, who had been involved in the search for Loup and accumulated much of the evidence against them, sign the official secrets act. Again. At least nothing would be appearing on that ridiculous blog.

Two days before the trial, therefore, with Loup safely in custody, Mycroft's mind had turned to other matters. Namely, he was preparing for divorce. Edith had now been gone for ten days, and although she called him every night, Mycroft was almost certain that she would soon realise what she couldn't yet admit to herself; that she wanted to leave him. He couldn't blame her and he wouldn't stop her, but he would miss her. The house had seemed strangely empty without her; he had been spending more time at the Diogenes again. It was almost the same as before they had married.

There was the question of the child, however; that had taken him some thought. Finally he had decided that given that parenthood was daunting enough anyway, and that was with Edith to help him, it would be best all round that in the event of divorce he was not directly involved in the child's life. He would see it well provided for, of course; to begin with he planned to break the terms of the pre-nuptial agreement that would give Edith nothing from the divorce and settle a large amount on her, enough that she wouldn't have to work if she didn't want to until the child was at least school age, and then he would continue to pay maintenance and school fees. He would see the child would want for nothing, he just wouldn't see it.

There was also the question of the house, that had been in the Holmes family for some time. Currently his will stated, in the family tradition, that in the event of his death the house would go to Sherlock as the next eldest male bearing the name of Holmes. Some one of their ancestors back in the day had decided on this, to give each of his sons and each of their sons the chance to inhabit what was in those days something of an estate. Now only the house and the tradition remained, which was why the house had gone to Mycroft, not to his mother, when his father had died. Yet Sherlock looked horrified when he found out it could fall into his hands.

"I don't want it." He said. "Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft, of course Edith should have it."

"Or the child, if it is of age." Mycroft amended.

"Hmm. I thought it seemed like things still weren't going well." Sherlock said, not sounding sympathetic, but not sounding glad either. "How long has she been gone now?"

"Just over a fortnight." Mycroft said, trying to keep his tone light. John still interrupted, giving up on his pretence that he wasn't listening in from his seat at the kitchen table.

"Is everything okay?" He asked. "How's Edith?"

"She is doing much better." Mycroft said, curtly. "According to her mother, her appetite has returned and she is sleeping properly. She is staying with them for the time being."

"Oh." John said, and paused. "And… is everything okay between you two?"

"I fail to see how that is any business of yours." Mycroft sniffed.

"Mycroft is getting things ready for when she finally realises she wants a divorce." Sherlock said, bluntly. "Are you going to see her again?"

"No." Mycroft said. "She did ask me to come down to visit for the weekend, but of course, it's impossible this close to the trial."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm glad to see she hasn't completely made you take leave of your senses, then. The case against Loup would fall apart if you left it with Lestrade _unsupervised_."

"That is exactly what I told her. I believe she understood."

"No, no, I'm sorry, but no!" John said, suddenly getting to his feet, looking appalled at them. "You've got to be kidding me. Come on."

"Do you have something to say, John?" Mycroft asked, not sounding terribly polite. He still wasn't happy with John.

"Yes, actually, I have a question. Are you an idiot?"

Sherlock laughed, but before Mycroft could answer, John had continued.

"Or, a better question, is Edith an idiot?"

"No, she isn't." Mycroft said impatiently, trying to humour him.

"Well…" Sherlock muttered. Mycroft glared at him.

"Alright then, is Edith particularly self-centred?" John asked, folding his arms.

"Certainly not."

"And she knows all about the trial?"

"Yes, I believe so. As I say, she understands."

"But she still asked you to come." John said. "So don't you think- hasn't it occurred to you somewhere in that big brain of yours- that maybe, if she knew all that and she _still _asked you to come, that she might _really _want to see you? That she might need you there?"

"Oh." Mycroft said. It was illogical. It had not occurred to him.

"I know it might not be _convenient_," John said. "And yes, it's terrible timing, maybe it is a bit selfish, but if you want to save your marriage, Mycroft, I suggest you get down there to see her."

Mycroft stood. "Excuse me." He said. "…John. Thank you." He left, before he could embarrass himself further, hurrying down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, hailing the first taxi he saw. He felt like a fool, but perhaps he could put it right.

Ooooooooooo

It was Edith's mother who opened the door to him, as he stood impatiently on the front step, about to ring the bell for the third time.

"Mycroft!" She said, startled. "Edith said you couldn't come."

"I made some time." He replied, kissing his mother-in-law's cheek. "Is Edith here, Mrs Noakes?"

"I'm afraid not, she's just gone out with her dad; they've gone up to look at the old keep, something about mushrooms. I'm not sure how long they'll be, but you can come in and wait. You're stopping for dinner, aren't you? Or if you're stopping overnight, I can make up the spare bedroom, Edith's only got a single- oh, but you don't have any luggage."

"No." Mycroft agreed, noticing then that he didn't. "But please make up the spare room for us."

"You're staying, then?" Mrs Noakes smiled.

"I hope so." Mycroft answered.

"Good! Edith will be so pleased to see you, come in."

"No, thank you, I'll go and see if I can find them." Mycroft said. He felt strange, some emotion he couldn't identify, like his concentration had gone; he wanted to skitter about like a bird, or Sherlock. He supposed the word was _flustered_. All he knew was he had to find Edith and speak to her, the sooner the better. He wouldn't forgive himself if it was too late, if he missed the life line she had thrown to him. Pausing only to get some verbal directions from Mrs Noakes, he turned and set off in haste for the keep, for his wife and his marriage.

His mother-in-law had been quite correct when she had said that the keep wouldn't be hard to find. You entered the woods and followed the trail up the hill, and so Mycroft did, ignoring the dirt and mud that was now coating his best work shoes, the water soaking into the bottom of his trousers from the damp floor, ignoring even his own breathlessness because the climb was steep and he was used to walking no further than the length of a corridor. He could see the keep long before he reached it, stone walls still standing in places, fallen to ground in others, all covered in moss, plants and trees growing in the gaps. It looked deserted. Impatient to reach it, to find her, Mycroft left the track, going cross country even though it meant practically scrambling up the hill, using trees to support himself on the steepest parts, even though it left grime on his fingers and damp on his jackets where he accidentally brushed against them. He was relieved to find the ancient stone wall when it came under his fingers, and took a moment to try and compose himself. It didn't really work. He wanted to see her. He hadn't realised quite how much he had missed her; but he wanted to see her. He could admit that much, he wanted to see her. She had to be here somewhere. If he had missed her after all this, after ruining his shoes, it would be intolerable.

He moved around the keep, looking for her; and as he turned the final corner of the square wall, it was to find her looking at him. She was sitting on a large fallen slab and had heard the noise of someone approaching. As he came round the corner, he found himself looking straight into her eyes.

Mycroft stopped, suddenly realising he had very little idea what to say. Edith looked healthier, more like her old self, with a somewhat rounder stomach. She also looked utterly shocked, climbing to her feet.

"I thought you said you weren't coming." She said.

"I did." Mycroft agreed. "But… I was wrong. I should have put you first. I'm sorry."

"So… you chose me." She said, smiling. She was teasing, but there was a note of something else in her voice.

"Yes." Mycroft said. "Always."

She came into his arms and hugged him then, and Mycroft held her back with almost equal enthusiasm. Loup had been right to target him through Edith; she was his one weakness. Even so, Mycroft had no intention of ever letting her slip through his fingers.

Ooooooooooo

Later, they were lying together in the double bed in her parents' spare bedroom, quietly talking more than they had talked for a long time. They had talked about what had happened, Edith had explained how she had felt, how she had struggled. She told him how much she had missed him while she had been gone, she had told him she loved him; and he had done much the same. He had told her about how he had been afraid she would divorce him, and how it had felt like his world was ending. She would come home with him in the morning, so they could both be in London for the trial. In the meantime, Mycroft did the unthinkable and turned his work phone off. They talked about the child, and what they hoped for it and finally they talked about many things, unimportant things, they talked about nothing at all.

"What has your father got planned for the mushrooms?" Mycroft asked, eventually. Mr Noakes, although retired, was a botanist of some repute and it was to collect the mushrooms that the two of them had been up at the keep at all. Edith suddenly laughed.

"They aren't for him." She said. "They're for Sherlock."

"What?" Not many things surprised Mycroft, but that did.

"He likes fungus, I suppose." She shrugged. "And he wanted us to stay together."

"What?" He asked again.

Edith reached over to the bed side table, grabbing her phone, scrolling through her texts before handing it over to him, using it as an excuse to cuddle up to him. Mycroft let her, looking at the screen. He didn't even know Sherlock had her number, but the text was undoubtedly from him, dated that morning.

**Bring home mushrooms. **It said. **Mycroft is coming to get you**. **–SH**

"Hmmph." Mycroft was not impressed- and Sherlock called _him _interfering. "So you knew I would come?"

"I hoped so." She said. "I didn't really believe him. I just believed you, Mycroft. You've told me you love me enough." She kissed his cheek and settled down into his shoulder, on the verge on sleep.

"Well, it's true." He mumbled peevishly, not wanting to rouse her back into being completely awake. And it was true. He did love her. In that moment, when she had thought she was about to die, when she had thought it was the last thing she would ever say to him, she had not 'I love you' but 'I forgive you'. She had decided those were the important words to say. As he watched her sleep that night, Mycroft decided he would never give her cause to make that choice again.


	15. Fourteenth Cup: Mummy

A/N: This chapter was so difficult to write for some reason, it took even longer than I hoped it would! My schedule should settle down a bit now (in theory) so I'm hoping to keep updates more regular :) Thank you as always to everyone who reads/follows/reviews, you make my day :)

Fourteenth Cup: Mummy

It was Saturday afternoon and for once Mycroft was not at work. His marriage had rather got its second wind since Edith had come home and Loup had gone to jail. Thankfully her pregnancy was passing without further incident. She was now eighteen weeks gone, had a definite bump and they would very soon be able to find out the baby's gender. Edith, too, was remarkably hale and hearty- for a first pregnancy she was doing very well, so far suffering little morning sickness, sometimes suffering just slight nausea or heartburn. The main effect seemed to be on her sleeping habits; she tired a lot more easily and often slept during the day. She was dozing now in her chair, as Mycroft quietly read the newspaper next to her, determined not to disturb her. He was beginning to see the attraction of lazy Saturdays.

Edith stirred, twisting to look at him. She smiled, blinking the sleep away from her eyes.

"Hello." She said.

"Good afternoon." He replied. "Why don't you go upstairs and take a proper nap?"

She shook her head and sat up properly. "I'm up now." She said. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I can make it."

"It's fine, I can go." She carefully levered herself out of the chair and set off for the kitchen. Mycroft returned to his newspaper. When the doorbell rang, he assumed it was just a delivery of some sort, or else Molly had popped round again. That was why he didn't trouble himself to get up; whatever it was, it would be his wife's business. He went back to his newspaper.

Edith, however, had no idea who it was at the door. Like her husband, her best guess was that it would be Molly, the only person who ever popped round unexpectedly. When she opened the door, however, she did not know the woman standing there. It was no comfort that the woman on the doorstep seemed equally astonished to see her, icy blue eyes widening in astonishment and then narrowing in suspicion.

"Who," She demanded, "Are you?"

"This is my house." Edith replied firmly. "Can I help you?"

"I don't think it is." The woman said, with a small derisive laugh. Then she looked at Edith's left hand, resting on the doorframe. "_Oh_. I see. How… unexpected."

There was something in the drawl that was familiar to Edith; something about this woman that seemed altogether like they had met before. It was, Edith realised, the shape of her eyes, the arch of her cheek bones and the purse of her lips. She even had thick black curls, cut short just beneath her ears. She was so much the splitting image of Sherlock Edith wondered how she hadn't recognised her immediately. This woman had to be some relative of Sherlock and Mycroft's, but which she couldn't venture to guess. Mycroft had, after all, said he had no family.

"Don't stand there gawping, young lady, ask me in." She said, frowning.

"I'm sorry, madam," Edith said again. She had learnt her lesson about being cautious. "But I'm still not sure who you are."

"I am Mrs Magdalene Holmes." She said, looking slightly affronted. "I lived in this house for twenty years, raised both my children here and gave it up only when my husband died. So I will ask again, _who _are _you_?"

"Edith Holmes, I live here with my husband." Edith wasn't sure why it sounded so much like a justification, but something about this woman put her on the defensive. She was being made to feel like an unwelcome intruder in her own home, and Mrs Holmes had yet to cross the threshold, though the elder woman seemed to be putting that to rights as she barged past with a little tut. It must be Mycroft's and Sherlock's mother, Edith realised, in spite of how young she looked. Either she hid her age well or she must have been barely out of her teens when she had given birth to Mycroft.

"So which of my sons married you without telling me, Edith?" She asked, slipping her coat off. "Sherlock?"

"No, Mycroft." Edith said, taking the coat, rather surprised that Sherlock's own mother couldn't see he wasn't really the marrying type. Then again, the same had probably been said of Mycroft. "I'm sorry you weren't invited, I was under the impression you were…" She trailed off.

"Dead? Oh no, dear, he probably just hopes so. You're too young for him, you know, I hope he appreciates you." She patted Edith's elbow and went off down the hall, acting for all the world as if this were still her house. "Mycroft, are you home?"

Since his marriage Mycroft had grown more used to having unexpected things happen; he had been forced to accept that even he could sometimes be surprised, particularly when someone else acted illogically. He had been nineteen when his father had suddenly died, just beginning his second year at Oxford; Sherlock had just turned twelve, busily working to avoid expulsion from boarding school. He would still do things worthy of getting him expelled, of course, but he would cover up well to avoid having to go home. Their mother, therefore, had not been a huge part of their lives even then; but a week after the funeral she had announced that, as the house now technically belonged to Mycroft, she was leaving for the continent. That was the last Mycroft had seen or heard of her. He believed Sherlock had received a letter or two in the early years, until his lack of response had put her off and their mother had disappeared from their lives altogether. For years he had expected her to turn up again, but so much time had passed he had finally concluded she had gone for good. Yet here she was, in his house, unannounced and unapologetic. Mycroft stood, ready to receive her, trying to smooth the surprise from his face. His mother entered the lounge, Edith trailing hopelessly behind her.

"Hello Mycroft." She said. "It's good to see you."

"Mother." Mycroft said, as she settled herself into the settee that they had taken out of storage when they began to receive more guests. She smiled at him.

"Look at you. Somehow I wasn't expecting you to be so grown-up." She leant back into the cushions, making herself more comfortable. "But never mind that, go and help your wife make us all a cup of tea- black with two sugars please, dear- she wants to shout at you."

Edith made some faint protest but never the less went off into the kitchen with Mycroft, refilling the kettle and setting it on to boil. Mycroft busied himself finding the cups and arranging them on a tray.

"I thought you didn't have any family." Edith said, cautiously. Mycroft didn't blame her. He had never told her much at all about his family circumstances, just that only Sherlock was left. He hadn't seen the use of troubling her with the rest. The thing that annoyed him most about his mother's sudden appearance was that she had callously swept that choice out of his hands. He couldn't very well avoid broaching the subject now.

"Edith, this is the first time I've seen my mother in more than fifteen years." He sighed, taking out his phone. "I had no idea where she was and I had no idea that she was coming. I need to warn Sherlock."

"You don't think he'll want to see her?"

"I doubt it." Mycroft answered. "She'll certainly want to see him, though. Sherlock was always her 'little angel'." He set to work on his text. "Well, he was something of a happy accident- at least, on my father's part it was an accident. He never wanted any more children. In fact, he was never entirely convinced that Sherlock was his."

"And is he?" Edith asked, looking troubled.

"I believe so." Mycroft said. "In spite of everything, my mother really did love my father; she was distraught when he died. Unfortunately, she was also flirtatious and reckless and often lonely. My father was jealous and perhaps not entirely without cause, but I believe she was more or less faithful to him."

"But he didn't think so? Poor Sherlock."

"Some days father believed it, some days he didn't." Mycroft shrugged. "Sherlock was treated well enough, but I suppose it's fair to say I was father's favourite and he was mother's. I think she was a little disappointed at how like my father I turned out, she lost interest in me once I started school."

The kettle had boiled but Edith ignored it, coming and hugging him, reaching in sideways to accommodate her growing stomach. "You're my favourite." She said. Mycroft wondered if he had looked like he needed comforting.

"Edith, I'm quite alright." He assured her. "I have no complaints about my childhood. I was well provided for."

"Oh, Mycroft." She sighed, not letting go of him. "But over fifteen years? You can't have been very old."

"I was nineteen, an undergraduate." Mycroft said. "My father died suddenly, that was the cause of the trouble really. My mother really had loved him and he was no longer there. Nor did it help when we found he had taken his suspicion of her to his grave; whatever his reasons, in his will I was named as his soul inheritor; mother and Sherlock were given nothing. Family tradition meant this house came into my name, my mother was literally left with nothing to show for some twenty years of marriage. I intended to make a settlement to her, give her what was by rights hers, but she was offended and disappeared. After a few months we had heard nothing from her, so I spent most of what I would have given her in several large donations to various government institutions until they overlooked my young age and allowed me to be Sherlock's legal guardian. He was twelve." Mycroft wasn't sure why he felt this was necessary information to add, but the words came out without him entirely meaning them to. He wanted Edith to know, to really understand what this woman had done to him and his brother.

"Then why is she here now?" Edith asked. "Perhaps she feels guilty."

"I doubt it." Mycroft said. "She probably wants something."

"Mycroft, don't say that."

"I will believe better of her when she deserves it." Mycroft said, gently detaching himself and turning to finish making the tea. It was going to be a long day.

Ooooooooooooo

As expected, his mother had insisted on being taken round to Baker Street the moment she had finished her tea. In all honesty, Mycroft had not tried terribly hard to dissuade her. He wasn't sure Edith's nerves would have stood up to much more of his mother's undivided attention. She had been quizzing Edith on everything from her job and education to her age, her parents, even what weight she expected to go back to after having the baby. Some of Edith's answers satisfied her, others made her lips purse and she would give some sort of 'if it were _me_' statement that expressed disapproval more clearly than any criticism could. The bulk of her criticism, however, was directed at Mycroft- he had married too late, he was too old to be having his first child, he had arranged the furniture badly. She still hadn't told them why she was there, but Mycroft refused to ask. Let her come to the point in her own good time, it would make no difference. She seemed to have at least taken a liking to Edith, in spite of the occasional disagreements and disapprovals. Edith, on the other hand, didn't seem to know what to make of her; but endeavoured to be polite and was at her most charming. Mycroft was proud of her, seeing yet more reminders of why he had married her. Mycroft was far more concerned about how Sherlock was going to behave, if he was even there. He wouldn't put it past his brother to have got the warning and to have disappeared.

Thankfully Sherlock had seemingly accepted the inevitable and was still at home, though he seemed largely disinterested and sat in his arm chair with his knees up, doing his best to ignore them all, giving his mother only monosyllabic responses. John did his best, but their mother had lost interest in him shortly after finding out he really wasn't Sherlock's partner.

"It's quite alright." She had said. "They have so much aristocratic blood in them I was sure one of them would turn out to be gay. Although to be quite honest I rather thought it would be Mycroft."

"No." John had said. "No, we're really just flat mates, Mrs Holmes. I couldn't afford to live alone on an army pension."

"Oh, you're army?" She asked. "My husband was army." She had looked rather sad, then, and gone to sit down. "Don't ever marry." She said, and Edith hastened to fill the ensuing awkward silence with some comment about the latest book she had borrowed from Sherlock. She really was a wonderful woman, Mycroft decided with some smugness. She was more help than John, who had just been standing in the kitchen doorway uselessly.

There was only one other difficult moment where John mentioned that he sometimes helped Sherlock with his work. He seemed to think it was a good idea to praise Sherlock to his mother; Mycroft wasn't sure how much he had been told. He told their mother how impressive Sherlock was at his job, how he was the best- and then their mother had interrupted with a slightly confused frown, and asked Sherlock what it was he _did_.

Mycroft sipped his tea, thinking that, if nothing else, showed his mother's inattention- clearly she had never even tried to look them up. Edith and John both looked shocked. Sherlock, however, lied without batting an eye.

"I'm a pathologist." He said. "At St Barts."

Edith, more confused now than ever, glanced at Mycroft for guidance. He smiled lightly at her, and she nodded minutely, not understanding perhaps, but agreeing to go along with it. John, unfortunately, was not so subtle, freezing with his mug half way to his mouth and then accidentally gulping down half his tea in one go when Sherlock glared at him. Thankfully, he too said nothing. Mycroft supposed their surprise was understandable. Sherlock was not exactly a paragon of humility and was more than a little proud of his work; in usual circumstances he would not hide it. What John and Edith did not know, however, was what their mother was really like. She usually meant well, but she was interfering, overbearing, and always thought she knew best.

And she worried. When they were children, she had worried about them constantly- or about Sherlock, at least. The largest frustration of his brother's childhood had been that their mother had rarely let him out of her sight, until Sherlock began to resent it and do his utmost to get away. Mycroft had always thought it was having her children out of reach that had driven her away; one at university and one at boarding school even though she had fought many bitter arguments with both Sherlock and their father, trying to get him to attend a day school rather than going away as Mycroft had. It was just poor timing on her part that the occasion where she gave up and walked out on them was perhaps the first time they had truly needed her. In truth, though, she had always been a selfish mother; doing it for what she could get out it, needing to feel needed, wanting the attention and love, neither of her sons were her first priority. If she knew the true nature of Sherlock's work, she would undoubtedly make a fuss and neither of the brothers could tolerate her dramatics. She would be worried again.

"Perhaps we could come to the point." Mycroft said, before Sherlock had to steal any more of Molly Hooper's life for his fictional biography. "Mother, could your sudden appearance by any chance be anything to do with the recent changes to my will?" He deliberately did not meet Edith's eye. He hadn't mentioned anything about his will to her, and he would probably be in trouble for it later. She obviously didn't want to challenge him in public, however, as she said nothing.

"Well, my dear, we use the same solicitor." She said, not bothering to contend it. "And I was a _little _surprised to hear you removed my settlement. You might at least have discussed it with me."

Mycroft frowned. He would need to find a more discreet solicitor than the family firm in future. His mother's information was, naturally, quite correct- the equivalent share of his inheritance Mycroft had intended to give her before her disappearance he had included as a clause in his will instead on the chance he predeceased her. When he had been reorganising his will to make sure Edith and the child got their fair share, he decided his mother had been gone long enough and renamed her money to be bequeathed to Sherlock, with a little extra. He had prepared some small legacies to the Diogenes Club, to the Lestrades and John, to whom he was grateful, and the rest, the main bulk of his assets, were to pass to Edith; or if she was gone, to their child and any subsequent children. He had no intention of changing it again.

"I didn't know where you were." He replied, irritably, realising that was the smallest problem with what she'd said.

"Don't be silly, you could have found me any time." His mother sniffed. She leant forward to pat Edith's hand. "I'm not _trying _to con you out of anything, my dear, it's only right he should provide for you; but you see, it really should have been my money to begin with…"

Edith withdrew her hand. His mother looked indignant.

"It hardly matters. I'm unlikely to predecease you anyway, mother." Mycroft said, before she could say anything to Edith.

"Don't be so sure." She said. "I'm not so very much older than you, my darling, and I've lived a much healthier life. Anyway, it's best to be prepared. If your father had treated me as he should it would have all passed to me anyway, it's mine by rights! And really, you owe it to me, don't you? After all, I'm your mother, I gave birth to you and raised you, cared for you and-"

"And disappeared when I was twelve!" Sherlock interrupted. "This is getting annoying, Mycroft, just write her a cheque so she'll leave."

"Sherlock, angel, don't be so upset… you were away at school, you didn't need me, and I was grieving for your father, I couldn't help myself. Your brother just needs to remember that just because he has a wife now doesn't belie his responsibilities to his mother."

"He doesn't need to remember anything!" Edith had snapped and stood, ignoring the restraining hand her husband placed on her elbow. Mycroft sighed in resignation. His wife rarely angered, but when she did, it was best just to let it run its course. "I've had enough of this. Mrs Holmes, I'm terribly sorry about what happened to you and what your husband did, but you're behaving like a child! If you wanted to come back into the lives of your sons, you should have just called, you didn't need to wait to find a reason. I would have made sure they'd see you. Your sons are both very brave, I'd like to think they got it from you, so you must stop all this attention-seeking nonsense and all this selfishness and just say you're sorry for leaving if that's what you want to say. I'm quite happy for you to be involved in the life of your grandchild, but you must be reliable and you must be a good example, and right now he or she is kicking, so let's stop all this silliness and you may come and say hello to your son's child."

Mycroft had never seen his mother speechless before, but her offended look softened- crumpled was a better word- and with a shaking hand she came over to Edith.

"May I?" She asked, not sounding at all like herself. Edith nodded, and the older woman put her hand on the bump to feel the baby kick.

First she laughed, and then she began to cry; and then Edith, too, was blinking back tears, and the two of them embraced and the three men in the room were left wondering what exactly had just happened. Mycroft let it go first. As the only married man in the room, he knew that sometimes one simply had to let the mysteries of female relationships go. From what he could gather, Edith and his mother had just staged some sort of reconciliation and no doubt he would be expected to as well.

He couldn't forgive his mother, of that he was quite sure. He would tolerate her, to indulge his wife, but to go further would be impossible. Or it would be, if it was left to him, if he was on his own. Edith had a habit of making things that should have been impossible to him possible after all. As always, he would follow her lead and reserve judgement until he saw where they ended up.


	16. Fifteenth Cup: Cravings

A/N: A slightly shorter chapter today because I'm desperately trying to update _Into the Sunset, _which has now been waiting about a month. I'm sorry! Still, here is an update for this and it's in general fluffy as a kitten. Out of character perhaps, let me know what you think…

Fifteenth Cup: Cravings

Mycroft was trying very hard to be considerate, but it would be a relief when the baby was born. There were just a few weeks to go, and after a relatively easy pregnancy, it was finally beginning to affect Edith. She was hormonally all the over the place, far more prone to irritation, petulance or tears than she ever had been before. It was made worse by the boredom, the fact she had left work and found it difficult to leave the house. She was now getting through a book a day, having given up even on the brief walks she would take Salisbury on because of the difficulty of getting her wellington boots off afterwards without Mycroft there to assist her. Still, she was generally well and in good spirits, looking forward to the arrival of their baby daughter. Ever since they had found out the child's gender, Edith had been busy in buying and arranging furniture, knitting and sewing and generally making everything ready. Mycroft did not believe she had the 'glow' often attributed to pregnant women- the whole thing was stuff and nonsense- but she did seem happy, although she was often tired. He himself couldn't prevent the stirrings of joy and pride when he was able to feel the baby kicking. He wasn't the sort naturally inclined to fall to emotional pieces at such a thing, but there was no doubt that his daughter responded to his voice; according to Edith, the child was always more active when her parents were having a conversation. She was alive already, although she had still to take her first breath in this world, there was no denying that.

But it was not all rose-tinted perfection and happiness. There was the rather pressing question of his smoking habit. To begin with, Mycroft objected to the word _habit_, he smoked so little that he had every confidence he could easily stop. It was, after all, only one cigarette after dinner and the occasional one at the Diogenes club, if he'd had a bad day. Of course, once the child was born, he would stop smoking anywhere within sight of the house, that much was definite. One had to lead by example for children, and no child of his was going to engage in such a filthy habit; especially as there was no guarantee they would share their father's sense of moderation. Cigarettes in the house once the child was born were out of the question- Edith had said so much herself and he had agreed, of course. There had been, however, some disagreement about him smoking while she was pregnant.

Mycroft was no fool, of course. He knew the danger he put his wife in through passive smoking; normally minimal as he smoked so little, but pregnant women were particularly vulnerable. Out of consideration for her condition, therefore, ever since the beginning of her pregnancy, he had taken to smoking his cigarette in the dining room instead of the lounge, joining her a few moments later. The dining room was separated from the lounge by a good length of airy hallway, at such a distance that even the smell of smoke did not reach there, and by the time Edith set foot in the dining room again the next morning it would have well and truly dissipated.

If he was honest, truly honest- and, given that he made his living fairly often as a diplomat and had a heavily pregnant wife at home, Mycroft rarely was these days- he thought it an unnecessary caution. Worse was going into his wife's lungs whenever she ventured out into any of London's congested and polluted streets. Still, the baby breathed what she breathed, and it was a little courtesy Mycroft liked to pay them. It was best to err on the side of caution, whether it was for the sake of his family's health or merely their domestic peace and comfort.

Recently, however, much to Mycroft's chagrin, it seemed that Edith did not appreciate the gesture at all, growing more and more irritated when he sent her to the lounge ahead of him. Mycroft tried to be patient with her, but knew in reality that she wouldn't be content until he gave up his after-dinner cigarette entirely and he didn't want to; nor did he see why he should. He enjoyed it, he was being particularly careful that it would not harm her and it marked a neat division between work and home. Edith would do much to calm and sooth him with her conversation over dinner, to ease his mind gently from the trials of the day to the concerns of home. His solitary cigarette was his final chance to reflect on work, leaving the worries of it in the ashtray with the stub. There was a lot of darkness in what he did, and he didn't want it touch Edith, not again. He knew it caused her uneasiness, and did the best to keep her, just as the rest of the general public, in the dark about the threats to country and government that occasionally lingered on the doorstep or fell into Mycroft's in-tray. When his cigarette was finished and he joined her, he was always ready to keep his home life separate and insulated from what had come before, ready for some peace and rest. He did not want to give up that marker, that ritual, until it was completely necessary, and if Edith could not understand that, she would simply have to endure it.

"You're smoking that in here, I suppose?" She asked from the dining room doorway, nodding at the cigarette in his hand, when he did not rise to follow her out.

"Of course." Mycroft said. "It could be very harmful to the child. You go on, I won't be long."

"Oh, I'm dismissed, how _kind_." She said, sounding so delighted when she clearly wasn't that Mycroft couldn't help idly wondering if his brother had been teaching his wife sarcasm during all their impromptu book club meetings. "Well, I'll get out of the way; here you are." With that, she took the ashtray from the sideboard and slammed it down in front of him with such vehemence that it rattled against Mycroft's glass. He raised his eyebrows.

"Edie… I will stop smoking when the child is born, but I enjoy it. I will not give it up just yet."

"It's not that." She snapped.

"Then what?"

"Nothing." With that, she turned and walked out of the room in such a way that it only needed to be exaggerated a little to be a _flounce_. Perhaps it was as much of a flounce as a woman could manage while carrying an almost fully formed child around in front of them. Either way, Mycroft rather suspected that this was one of those times that a young woman would use _nothing _to mean either _everything _or _something specific, but I want you to realise it for yourself; _so he didn't follow her, regulating it to be turned over in the back of his mind while he smoked and itemised the events of the day into their appropriate drawers, shutting them away one by one. Finally, as he ground the cigarette out, he came back to Edith's reaction. If it wasn't the smoking itself, he could only assume that she objected to being sent out of the room whilst he did it. Mycroft frowned a bit at this- it was only logical. Still, the best thing to do was to apologise and attempt to appear sincere. Sometimes, the only way to avoid an all-out war of contrition with every past grievance coming to bear was to pursue a policy of appeasement.

Mycroft was looking forward to his daughter being born, if only to see normal service be resumed in his wife's behaviour. He could not have married her if she was always this temperamental. Walking on egg shells did not agree with him; neither did unpredictable mood swings. He just hoped the child was not late in coming, he didn't want to tolerate any more of this than necessary. In any case, he would expect any daughter of his to be punctual at all times. He went cautiously into the lounge, where Edith looked up at him with slightly guilty eyes. That was a good sign.

"I believe I've upset you, Edith." He said, settling himself into his armchair and trying to look suitably abashed, and as if he had some real idea of what his actual transgression was. He didn't get as far as apologising, however, because his wife interrupted.

"No, no, you've done nothing wrong, Mycroft." She said, shaking her head. Clearly it was going to be a bad night, hormonally speaking. "It's me, I'm being silly, it's not your fault, it's just… it's _unbearable_!"

Mycroft was rather alarmed at this outburst, squeezing her hand earnestly. It would be just like her to keep it from him if she needed help. "What is, Edie? Are you in pain? Is the child alright?"

"Tobacco!" Edith said, which wasn't really an answer. Mycroft did his best to put the fragments together.

"If the smell really is that disagreeable to you, then-" He began, but she was already shaking her head.

"My father," she said "When I was very young, used to smoke a pipe. Then, one day when she was very small, Penny got hold of it and managed to get hot ash in her eye. She was fine, but my father got rid of all of it that day, he went cold turkey and never smoked again."

"A good example, I'm sure, but my habit is hardly comparable. I-"

"Oh, do shut up." Edith groaned, and Mycroft was so shocked at her vulgarity that he did so. "That's not what I mean. I remember the smell perfectly, I remember it so distinctly. And I'm craving it, Mycroft, for weeks now, I've just been craving my father's pipe tobacco and I can't even indulge it so far as to be in the room with your cigarettes and it is _unbearable_! If my father's pipe was here I could happily smoke a hundred!"

After this surprising declaration, she hung on the edge of her seat, looking to him for an answer. He did have genuine sympathy for her; it was no wonder she had not complained to him of her pregnancy craving before, as he would have utterly denied it to her. He frowned, wondering if there was any way he could help. If it had been nicotine addiction, he could have found some sort of patches or gum that wouldn't harm the child; but this was a different matter entirely. She was craving tobacco itself, the smell of it, the taste of it that would have lingered in the air of her childhood. He simply didn't know how he could alleviate the cravings, there was no substitute that would be safe, to the best of his knowledge. Nothing smelt quite like pipe tobacco, even cigarettes were a pale imitation. He could think of nothing that would be similar.

"I will contact Sherlock." He said, finally. "He has made an in-depth study of different types of tobacco- or the ash at least. I will see if in the course of his researches he came across anything that would be safe to consume during pregnancy." He paused, thinking this statement over. "And then I will check it with Doctor Watson."

To his surprise, Edith laughed gently and stood, not letting go of his hand, before coming and sliding into his lap. She had never, during the course of their marriage, ever done this before. Alarmed, Mycroft wrapped an arm around her back, trying to keep her secure. Mycroft was suddenly thankful that she had been quite slim before the addition of the baby, or he might have been most uncomfortable. She settled herself down, resting her head on his shoulder and gently running her fingers up and down his lapel.

Mycroft had no idea what to do, so he put his arm more securely around her shoulders, pulling her in and allowing her to lie more comfortably. For a moment they didn't speak as she continued to play with his jacket, and he reciprocated with a gentle caress on her arm. He felt an unusually strong desire to kiss her.

"The smell gets into your jacket." She informed him teasingly. "Just for a few minutes." She breathed pointedly, mischievously deeply from his shoulder. "Ahh! Lovely! Or, is that dangerous for me too, Doctor Holmes?"

"Extremely." He replied, mimicking her light tone. But he had never been good at this kind of teasing and flirtation, so he returned to his reassurances. "I'll speak to Sherlock tonight. I'm sure-"

He stopped, abruptly, because Edith had raised a hand to his face and pulled it down to kiss him, rather deeply. He was surprised, but not unpleasantly. It was several moments until she was satisfied and released him, smoothing down his collar for him and straightening his tie as he collected himself.

He cleared his throat. "I'll ask Sherlock this evening." He repeated. Edith laughed, finally getting up from his lap, his steadying hand at her back, though she still hadn't let go of his other.

"No need." She said briskly, leaning in to kiss him again before returning to her own seat. "I can taste it on your lips as well."

It took a few moments for Mycroft's cognitive facilities to realise that she was, judging by the amused twinkle in her eyes, at least half teasing him. Mycroft had been noticing increasingly lately (indeed, he could not _fail _to notice) that Edith's pregnancy hormones were making her significantly more amorous. He could never be quite sure when the fits of unusual passion and affection would occur, he simply had to go along with it and hope it never happened in public.

The child, of course, should not be born before she was good and ready. It was better that she was healthy and ready than that the due date was accurate. If the child was late, so be it. There was no hurry.

Ooooooooooooo

A/N: So, next time (as you might have guessed) it will be time for baby to be born! The challenge is, therefore, to see if you can guess what her name is going to be. I already know, and you know that it will be a girl- your clue is that it begins with the letter R. :P If anyone guesses correctly, I will happily write a prompt of your choice; I'll do anything but Johnlock. Actually, any suggestions or ideas would be gratefully received, I'm beginning to run low… Comments and ideas would be very welcome!


	17. Sixteenth Cup: Baby

A/N: I have a few things to say about this one, but they're better kept for the end :) Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed last time!

Sixteenth Cup: Baby

The clock at Baker Street had an intolerably loud voice. Mycroft didn't even know why they had a clock, when neither of the lodgers ever looked at it. John and Sherlock both had watches, laptops, phones. They didn't need a clock on the mantelpiece tutting in disapproval every second. Mycroft rather felt like taking his umbrella to it, but, fearing he would be forced to leave, settled for twirling the weapon on the spot instead. He was sitting in John's armchair. John was out. Sherlock was busy conducting some experiment at the kitchen table, still in his dressing gown although it was almost noon. Gladstone was sleeping on the hearth rug. Edith was in hospital, in labour. Mycroft was uncomfortable.

It had started in the early hours. He had awoken because of Edith shifting next to him, fidgeting an unusual amount. Even in the first dull traces of dawn, he had been able to make out a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. She had told him she was in pain, that she thought it was labour. Then, reminding him in her practical way that it would take hours yet, and thinking that being moving about and occupied would help her, she went downstairs to prepare breakfast, while he took his usual shower and got ready as normal, though he had no intention of going into work. He was going to take the day off and welcome his child into the world. The problem was that neither of them had ever done this before. Even Edith admitted she couldn't be completely certain this was labour, though she thought it probably was and Mycroft was inclined to agree. He wanted to be available, therefore, should anything go wrong.

When he had come downstairs, however, Edith had broached the subject, still holding her stomach, her discomfort evident to Mycroft's observant eye. She told him she didn't want him there for the delivery. He could come immediately afterwards, but she felt she would have enough on her plate during the birth and that he would be unhelpful. She suggested that he wouldn't be very encouraging.

"Of course I would." Mycroft frowned.

"You wouldn't tell me 'You're almost there' or 'you're doing really well', though." Edith protested weakly. "You would tell me 'It will take hours yet Edie, don't wear yourself out', or 'Oh, there's not much happening, but keep at it, something has to happen eventually!' or 'I assure you, it's much worse watching from this end'!"

"I would not say that." He said, affronted.

"No, but you would think it and it would be all over your face." She said. "Be honest, Mycroft, do you really want to be there while I'm giving birth?"

Mycroft frowned. The truth was no, no he did not. There were things in life he had no desire to see, and his wife shoving and straining to force a sticky new-born into the world was one of them. He did want to be there to support Edith, and he did want to be there for the first moments of his child's life. But no, he did not want to witness the birth. He'd spent the last few months steeling himself for it, gearing himself up to it, feeling it was his duty, but it all sounded highly unpleasant.

"I don't want you to be there on your own." He said, finally.

"I was thinking of asking Molly to come. She's good at being encouraging." Edith said, looking guilty. She had clearly been agonising over this. Now that he thought of it, there had been a few occasions when he had seen she was about to say something, and had then changed her mind. She needn't have worried, though, as Mycroft's feelings on the subject were predominantly relieved ones. Besides, she had a point- he wasn't terribly good at being encouraging, Molly would be better. And if he could be there once it was over… Edith could see him wavering and took his hand.

"I won't stop you if you want to be there, Mycroft…" She said, slowly. "But don't feel obliged to. After all, it's only been fairly recently that the fathers have been allowed in at all."

"Are you sure you don't need me there?"

"Positive." Edith said, sounding relieved. "You would be very much in the way, dear." He laughed. She squeezed his hand, reclaiming his attention. "But I want you there the instant she's born, Mycroft. Before she's half an hour old."

"Of course." He replied, nodding. "Are you going to ring Miss Hooper?"

"Yes." Edith said, taking her phone from the table. "She's already agreed to come with me, but I'll let her know it'll be today."

"You've already asked her?"

"Of course." She said. "I may not be as observant as you and Sherlock are, Mycroft, but I wouldn't be any sort of wife if I couldn't tell when you didn't want to do things."

So now here he was, waiting at his brother's flat for Molly's regular updates, waiting until it was time for him to join them at the hospital. Sherlock was growing irritated, proven by the fact he could actually be distracted from his work, and demanded to know what was happening every time Mycroft's phone buzzed.

"How long does it take?" He snapped, when it had been about five minutes since Moly had text to say they would be moving down to the delivery suite 'soon'. "You've been hanging around here all morning!"

"It can take some time." Mycroft responded, pretending he didn't share his brother's impatience. "Mother took sixteen hours with you."

"I-" Sherlock began, and Mycroft seriously expected him to say _'I didn't ask her to', _but at the last moment Sherlock recovered and changed his sentence. "I don't understand why you're _here_, Mycroft. Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

"Edith didn't want me there while she's trying to give birth, but I want to be there soon afterward." Mycroft said. "Your flat, brother dear, is much closer to the hospital than my home; so I'm afraid you will have to tolerate my presence a little longer." His phone buzzed next to him, so he paused and picked it up to look at.

"Has she had it yet?" Sherlock demanded.

"No. She's been examined and they'll take her down in about half an hour."

"You do realise that there is somewhere even nearer to the hospital you could wait?" Sherlock asked, as if the interlude had never happened. "The hospital."

Mycroft span his umbrella again. Somehow it was quite therapeutic. Edith would have scolded him for fiddling with it.

"Mycroft, go away!" Sherlock insisted in his childish way. Mycroft began to suspect he had overstayed his welcome, but he didn't move.

"I don't like hospitals." He said, finally.

"What?"

"So I won't spend any more time than necessary there." He wasn't going to repeat himself.

Sherlock's face lit up and he opened his mouth to comment on his brother's newly discovered weakness, but he was interrupted by Mycroft's ringtone going off. Someone was calling him. Sherlock looked positively alarmed.

"What now? Is she alright?" He asked, forgetting in his panic that he supposedly didn't care about Edith or the child. Mycroft smirked at him.

"It's not her, Sherlock, it's just work. I must take this. Do excuse me." He stepped out into the hall, answering the call as he did so. It was a minor matter really, one they really ought to have been able to deal with themselves, but such were the problems when one made oneself indispensable to the running of the nation. At least Edith had managed to go into labour on a Friday; things were always quiet at the weekends and Mycroft could afford to have a couple of days at home before returning as usual on Monday. That was assuming nothing went wrong. If he was needed- but he pushed the thought away and refocused on his telephone conversation. Nothing was going to go wrong. Edith and the child would be fine.

The call took a few minutes to deal with and when Mycroft returned to the lounge, he found Sherlock had abandoned the chemistry and was now sitting in his chair, clearly having used the time to get dressed and make tea. He was sipping a cup himself, and directed Mycroft to the pot with a tip of his head. Mycroft poured himself a cup, trying to recall if this really was the first time Sherlock had ever made him tea. He believed so. His brother was clearly in a charitable mood.

"I see you're dressed." Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. Twenty minutes had elapsed since Molly's last text; if things were moving to schedule Edith would be taken into delivery shortly. He wondered if Sherlock was planning on accompanying him.

"An outstanding deduction." Sherlock said irritably, to which Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sipped his tea.

The clock on the mantelpiece was booming out again. Mycroft resisted the urge to pace the carpet. He could see Sherlock glancing at it in irritation too, drumming his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair. A moment later, clearly frustrated, he climbed out of the chair- over the arm, no less, Mycroft sniffed in disapproval- and went to the window, taking up his violin. Mycroft was surprised, but pleased. He very rarely got to hear Sherlock play. Even when they were children, Sherlock would always shove him out of the room or skulk off to a distant corner of the house to practice. It had been years, at least a decade, since he had heard Sherlock play. He was, naturally, extremely good at it; one of the few things that had held his attention and that he had done obsessively in his youth. Mycroft was glad of the music. The beauty of Wagner's compositions were one of the few things he and Sherlock could agree on, though Sherlock was far more impassioned than he was. He really thought music was important, was necessary. Mycroft thought it was rather more frivolous, a luxury, but at that moment, anything was better than the ticking of the clock.

Sherlock was playing the concerto in one movement, he realised. Playing it from memory. Mycroft knew he shouldn't be impressed by his brother's mind any more, but sometimes he couldn't help it. It was like how at times he would often forget Edith's precise photographic memory, and then she would quote precisely from something she had read a month before and he would be jolted into recognising this amazing feature of her otherwise entirely mediocre intellect. She really ought to be an expert in something, he thought; they ought to give her a year in the British Library and allow her to become a living encyclopaedia on some subject or another. Before the invention of the internet, she would have been infinitely useful; today the problem would be that she, like an encyclopaedia, would not necessarily understand the information at her disposal, and if she couldn't apply it, it would be little use at all.

It had now been thirty-two minutes since Molly last sent word. Mycroft turned his phone over in his hand.

"Is she at Barts?" Sherlock asked, his voice slightly stilted as he continued to play the violin as he spoke, not even interrupting his rhythm.

Mycroft snorted.

"Ah, no, of course not. St Barts is NHS." Sherlock corrected himself without the need of any further input. "The Wellington?"

Mycroft nodded. It was an easy deduction for Sherlock to make. The private hospital was less than a five minute drive from Baker Street. He checked his phone again. Molly had promised to get in touch when they were taking Edith down. Why hadn't she?

"Mycroft." Sherlock still didn't pause his music, although he coughed awkwardly. "You practically raised me on your own. And there's Edith this time."

"Yes. Although hopefully the child won't despise me quite as much as you do, brother."

There was a long pause as Sherlock navigated a particularly tricky few bars.

"Despise is a strong word, brother." He said, eventually. "You… didn't do too badly."

Mycroft didn't know what to say. This was unknown territory for them. Usually when Sherlock was being kind, he could make some wry or witty comment, because it was almost always insincere. He bent down to scratch Gladstone, who had woken up at the sound of the music, between the ears. Sherlock seemed relieved that the conversation was not being picked up, turning fully back to face the window. Mycroft watched him, with some little regret, wondering what it would have been like if he and his brother had been… well, _normal_, was the word that came to mind. More like John Watson and the people of his set; going through life half blind, noticing nothing, but understanding _everyone_. Being oblivious to the world, but able to connect so much more easily with other human beings, knowing instinctively how to show concern, and not seeing it as a weakness, being able to do so without embarrassment. That was something Mycroft had been forced by his marriage to work on; but Sherlock seemed most unwilling to even attempt to learn. What would their lives have been, if they had been like other people, if they were like Edith and her siblings? Sherlock would perhaps have been much more overt in his reassurances, teasing Mycroft about his abilities as a father, but in the end clapping him on the shoulder, congratulating him, telling him it would all be fine. Perhaps they would even have _hugged_. Sherlock almost certainly wouldn't have been doing the job he was doing now- he would be a chemist, perhaps, or have joined Mycroft in the civil service. Perhaps he would have become a pathologist, worked with Molly and married her; and come to the hospital with Mycroft when it was time. Then again, if they were more like normal people, perhaps Edith would have wanted him by her side from the beginning. Perhaps it wouldn't even have _been _Edith. Mycroft had married quite late, but in normal circumstances he might have fallen in love in his university days and married a girl from his course. He couldn't imagine being as content as he was now, even if he was more naturally inclined to happiness.

As it was, Sherlock couldn't even tell him he would be a good father and Mycroft didn't know what to say in response to his best attempt. Sherlock wouldn't accept his thanks, because he wouldn't admit he had been trying to reassure him. Then again, not too long ago, he wouldn't even have tried. Mycroft supposed they had Doctor Watson to thank for that. Sherlock was learning in spite of himself since John had moved in.

"You play very well, Sherlock." Mycroft said, eventually. Sherlock wouldn't cope with gratitude, but he could handle an exchange. A compliment in return for his efforts. Sherlock showed no sign he had heard, but smiled lightly and continued to play. He broke off abruptly in the middle of a bar as Mycroft's phone buzzed again, with a text. This time it was from Molly. "She's been moved down to delivery." Mycroft said. "The child will be born soon."

Sherlock nodded, readjusted his violin, and played to the end of the piece. Once it had finished, Mycroft decided it was time he relocated to the Wellington and went to meet his daughter. His stomach was churning, though he couldn't say why. If Molly was to be believed, the labour was progressing ideally.

He paused in the doorway. "Will you be coming, Sherlock?" He asked.

"No." Sherlock said, then relented. "Perhaps later." He began playing something by Bach. Mycroft went to leave again, but his conscience was unsettled. The morning had been no better for Sherlock than it had been for him. Just having him there would have been an effort for his brother.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He said, and swept out to eliminate the need of saying anything more.

Ooooooooooooo

Mycroft did not have long to wait at all once he arrived at the hospital. It seemed that they had not taken Edith down to the delivery suite until the last possible moment, for when he arrived he was informed that his daughter had arrived safely, and that both mother and baby were doing well. It was now ten minutes to one in the afternoon, Edith had been in labour for about ten hours, two hours or more below the average; though he was sure to his wife it had seemed quite long enough. He waited with some impatience to allow them time to clean up, check them over and move his family back up to a private room; that particular wait somehow seeming longer than all the hours at Baker Street. Finally, he was allowed upstairs.

Edith was sitting up in the bed, propped up by pillows, the new born in her arms- although from where he was standing, it looked to Mycroft more like a bundle of blankets. Molly was sitting in a chair by the bed, looking almost as tired as Edith, but she sprang up the moment she saw him, looking utterly delighted.

"Congratulations!" She enthused. "She's lovely."

"Thank you for your help, Miss Hooper." Mycroft said, stiffly but sincerely. He would think of a suitable way to reward her later, but for the moment, he wanted her to go away. Molly took the hint, however, and took her leave. Mycroft went over to the bed.

"Hello." Edith said, and Mycroft finally understood why mothers were called 'radiant'. He had never seen Edith looking so exhausted, her hair was an irrevocable mess, and yet, you could practically see happiness shining out of her skin.

"Good afternoon." He said, leaning over to kiss her forehead before settling into the seat. He leant over to observe his daughter, lying almost still now in her mother's arms, a tiny arm jerking, knocking the blankets awry. It seemed she was going to be about as sensible about blankets and bed time as Sherlock had been as a child. "And good afternoon to you too, little one." Mycroft said, softly.

"You are allowed to hold her, Mycroft." Edith said, calmly, as he made no move to take her.

"O-of course." Mycroft tried to hide his awkwardness behind a slight clearing of his throat. He reached out.

"Unbutton your shirt."

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft was certain he had misheard her. He had never gone shirtless in public in his life, and never intended to.

"She'll like the warmth." Edith said, amused, and Mycroft realised this was one of the occasions he could not argue with her. Hoping no-one would enter the room, he removed his tie and rolled it up neatly, placing it onto the edge of the bed. He reluctantly undid his collar and the top two buttons of his shirt. "Will that do?" He asked, unable to keep the despair out of his tone in spite of the situation.

"That will do nicely." Edith said, carefully handing the bundle over to him, fussily rearranging his arms, nestling the tiny girl into the crook of his arm, lying her next to his bare skin. The child responded to him, turning towards him, splaying her barely formed fingers against his chest. The touch was feather-light, like a snowflake landing on a windowsill, and yet, somehow, it left him feeling quite breathless. He suddenly understood everything that had baffled him before. He understood how it was possible for a human being to love instinctively and unconditionally. He understood why all parents thought their baby was beautiful, even though they all looked the same. His child was red and wrinkled up like a raisin, she was identical in looks to every one of the other fifteen thousand babies that would have been born worldwide in the last hour. Yet, still, she was beautiful and he would have known her among them all in an instant. It was irrational, he knew that, but it was true. His fears, his private fears that even he had not acknowledged, his fear that he would not love this child as he ought to, had quietly fallen from the back of his mind and been swept away. He was a father; the fact was terrifying, but it was powerful. He was a father, one who loved his daughter.

He swallowed, not sure about how to express himself on this occasion and unwilling to try. He covered her little hand with his own, gently tucking it back under the blankets. The movement still caused her to whine and he feared she might be about to cry- but she settled again, much to his relief, when he rubbed a hand carefully over her head. Her skull was so fragile, like an egg shell. He held her more carefully.

"She needs a name." He said. It was one of Edith's caprices that she disagreed with him most ferociously about all young babies looking the same, and also about names being a matter of abstract importance. She insisted that a name had to _suit _the child, and that they couldn't know what would suit her best before they knew how she looked. She had, therefore, flatly refused to discuss names, telling Mycroft that he was to keep all his suggestions in his head until the child was born, and she would do the same. Mycroft hadn't actually spared it much thought; he was largely uncreative, and had assumed that in the end his wife would come up with something suitable. He had, however, one suggestion prepared; if only to show willing.

"What did you have in mind?" Edith asked, lying down now, turned on her side to watch them. "Shall we compare lists?"

"I was thinking of perhaps Rosemary." Mycroft said, watching Edith to see her reaction. Judging by her smile, he had said exactly the right thing.

"I had thought of calling her Rosemary too." She said. "It seems to suit her."

"It does." Mycroft agreed, obediently. Edith smiled.

"Rosemary it is, then." She smiled, and Rosemary it was.

Ooooooooooooo

**A/N:** I don't know how this turned into a chapter about Sherlock and Mycroft again, but look, it did. XD I just thought it would be more interesting than him waiting in a hospital or having his hand broken by Edith like every show ever. Right? Right? Maybe!

Thanks to everyone who guessed names last time. **Kitten-Kath **was the only one to guess correctly, so congratulations! If you have a request for a chapter let me know and I'll get it done :) If anyone else has any suggestions, please let me know; I'll consider them all. I had a lovely one from in a PM which unfortunately wasn't quite suitable for this fic, but I tried to allude to it- hopefully you noticed and liked that paragraph!

On this note, my sister **Ashtrees** has suggested that I write a chapter about Mycroft and Edith when Mycroft finds out about Sherlock's 'suicide'; but so far I've been trying to avoid setting this story within any specific time within the canon of the series. If people would like to see it, I'll do it, but you may have to forgive some continuity errors!

Finally, for the non-British out there who might have been unsure- the NHS is our free state health care, but we do have the option to go into private hospitals and clinics if you have bags of money. Mycroft does have bags of money, and I doubt he would allow his child within ten feet of the NHS. XD The Wellington Hospital really is a private hospital within a few minutes' drive of Baker Street, but I don't think it has a maternity section. Oh well!

Thanks for reading :)


	18. Seventeenth Cup: Johnpers

A/N: Another mushy, over-sentimental chapter . I'm sorry, Mycroft! You can go back to being yourself soon! But it's hard not to go all gooey when there's a little baby involved. XD 'Johnper' was my lovely sister **Ashtree's **word; we're starting a campaign to have it generally accepted by the fandom. XD Let's spread the love for the Johnpers…

Seventeenth Cup: Johnpers

Mycroft arrived home punctually at six-thirty, as he had done unfailingly every day for the last five weeks. He had been trying to keep more regular hours ever since he had married, and the birth of his daughter was the final push to make him into a positive clock-watcher. Sometimes delays were unavoidable, of course, but woe betide whoever caused them, be it a junior clerk or a foreign head of state. It only made sense. If every man took care of his own family, his own small part of the nation, perhaps there would be little need for people like Mycroft at all. The health and prosperity of the nation rested on the health and prosperity of its households and families, and so it was in the national interest that he was home for his daughter's bedtime.

It was a push, however, to honestly claim that at five weeks old his daughter had a set bed time already. According to Edith, Rosemary slept regularly for an hour or two at a time during the day, and was at her most wakeful during the early evening. She certainly cried enough during the night, reminding Mycroft irresistibly of Sherlock's attention seeking in his bored phases, and disturbed them both; although it was always Edith who got up and went to the cot to settle her. This was at Edith's own insistence, as she was the one who did not have to go to work the next day. No matter how well she had slept through the night or how many naps she had taken during the day, however, Rosemary was always put to bed at six forty-five and gotten up at eight the following morning. The sooner they could establish a routine over meals and bedtimes, the better, though it wasn't entirely possible when she was so young. Mycroft wanted to teach his daughter discipline and self-control, he wanted her to be reliable and practical like her mother, he wanted to instil her with ambition, confidence and common sense. In short, he wanted her to be happy, and to teach her what he considered to be the necessary skills to being so. Success did not matter so much beyond Rosemary's own sense of self-worth; Mycroft had enough money to support her for life if necessary.

Of course, it was rather too early to be thinking about any of this. At present his daughter was still a tiny bundle (although growing rapidly) in his wife's arms. There was disagreement about who she looked most like. Her eyes had been an almost startling shade of almost yellow when she had first opened them, but had quickly darkened to be an exact mirror of Edith's brown irises. She had a small wisp of hair of indeterminate colour that was for the moment no help as evidence to either side. Her nose, so far as anyone could tell, would be slightly flat like her mother's, but it was already clear that she would inherit her father's chin, for which Mycroft would be eternally apologetic. It was hard to tell, but he suspected there might be some traditional Holmes high cheekbones hiding beneath the babyish roundness of her face, waiting to develop, but only time would tell. For the moment, Mycroft was inclined to agree with Edith's parents, in concluding that the child looked more like his wife. His own mother naturally insisted that the child looked most like him- and by extension _her- _and was making herself generally insufferable with a bi-weekly visit. Edith was bearing it with fortitude, refusing to rebuff his mother's efforts, as patient and pernicious as any ivy that would slowly and methodically take over the wall of a house before flowering at last.

Mycroft had come to appreciate his wife all the more since she had become a mother. Edith was coping admirably- some might even say _remarkably_. In spite of the significant disruption to her lifestyle and routine, he had noticed no change in her manner or habits. She, and the house, remained impeccably organised and tidy; Rosemary's things kept neatly in the nursery they had set aside for her, to be her bedroom when she got older. Mycroft had worried that Edith was overdoing it, pushing herself too hard to keep things in order- particularly given the sleepless nights- but she answered all his concerns with a wry smile and the observation that once Rosemary could move on her own, the house would not be theirs any more, and that trying to keep it organised and neat then would be near-impossible. She advised him to make the most of it while it lasted. Mycroft understood the sentiment and agreed.

In some ways, he couldn't wait for his daughter to mature. It would be nice to watch her grow, to see her learn to crawl and to walk, to hear her speak proper words to him. On the other hand, he had the distinct feeling once she could crawl she would be away, and he would be faced with the prospect of ever-sticky or stained fingers going all over his suits and his upholstery. Even as newborns, babies had a tendency to… leak. Tears or drool or things more unpleasant, from every orifice, and none of which were a welcome addition to a tailor-made suit costing several thousand pounds. As such, he always handled Rosemary with care, preferring to give her a pat or a kiss on the head, as a greeting or a goodbye, as Edith held her. When his turn came, he always held the infant always slightly away from himself; not quite at arm's length, but trying to keep his expensive suits out of harm's way, handing her over to her mother at the first signs of danger, although not without a slight wrench of disappointment and guilt. He loved his daughter; just not enough to allow her to ruin seven jackets and shirts a week during her infancy. He consoled himself with the thought that once she was a little older, he would be able to hold her to his heart's content, without fear of the unpleasant consequences.

Edith, of course, had other plans. He arrived home as usual, and Edith called to him that they were in the lounge. Mycroft went through to find her kneeling on the floor by the fireplace, Rosemary laid on a blanket in front of it. Clearly Edith had just concluded a nappy change. She smiled at Mycroft, told him to sit, lifted Rosemary into his lap, folded up the blanket and put it aside, and disappeared into the kitchen to dispose of the bag containing the used nappy and wipes, to give her hands a proper wash and to make them some tea.

Mycroft sat, a touch nervously, with Rosemary lying on his lap, making sure one of his legs properly supported her head, playing a finger over her tiny hands until she grasped hold of it, making him smile. She peered at his finger, looking confused, shaking it with what strength she possessed before letting it go again. Edith came back then, handing him a cup of tea, but made no move to take the child from him. Mycroft eyed Rosemary warily, hoping she wouldn't suddenly sneeze.

"I took Rosie shopping today." Edith said, curling up into her arm chair, looking worn out but smiling at the sight of the two of them. "We got you some presents."

"Oh?" Mycroft did not like the sound of that. If Edith had '_been shopping' _whatever she had bought would be from some sort of ghastly mass-market high street shop. All the money and good sense in the world had not been able to cure his wife of that deplorable little habit. She reached to the side of her chair and a moment later had scooped Rosemary up and deposited in her place a dark green carrier bag. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and waited for an explanation.

"We can't have Rosie ruining your suits; but I won't have you keeping her at arm's length all the time." Edith explained curtly, adjusting Rosemary so that they were both more comfortable. The child let out a short bird-like screech, then settled and fell silent. Edith continued. "So I decided to go into Marks and Spencer-"

"Really, Edie." He interrupted, exasperated. "Marks and Spencer? I agreed to wear ties from there, but _really_-"

"-To get you some baby-proof clothing." Edith spoke over him. "I'm not spending a couple of grand on getting you some top-range jumpers for Rosemary to dribble on. I bought them specifically to get ruined; if I had my way, I would have found you some in Primark. Think of M&S as a compromise. Now, put on your Johnper, and hold your daughter properly."

Mycroft had been poking through the bag, looking at the selection of knitted sweatshirts in various colours and styles, but now he paused, looking up at her in confusion. "Pardon?" He asked, sure he must have misheard. "My what?"

"Oh, your jumper, your jumper!" She said, caught somewhere between frustration and amusement. "Never mind that, just take off your jacket and put one on."

"That wasn't what you said, though." Mycroft said mildly, obediently slipping off his jacket and pulling the first jumper out of the bag that came to hand. "You said '_John_per', or something very like it."

"Oh, it's one of Sherlock's words." Edith said, unable to supress a little giggle now. "I'm sorry, he just said it to me once and it stuck with me. It means-"

"A jumper such as those John wears?" Mycroft guessed, looking disdainfully at the jumper in his hands. It wasn't bad, just a plain dark brown knit, smooth to the touch, tasteful, but Mycroft had never worn such a thing in his life and the idea that John Watson _would _put him off it considerably. Edith must have seen his face because she raised her eyebrows and spoke in her firmest tones.

"Just one of Sherlock's amalgamations, Mycroft, there's no need to be childish." She leant forward, still smiling, but enunciating each word very clearly. "Rosie wants a proper hug from her father, so, Mycroft Holmes, put on your Johnper!"

Mycroft Holmes sniffed, but did so. The jumper- or _Johnper_, as Edith insisted on calling it- was not at all to his taste. There was clearly some polyester involved and it felt cloying over his shirt front and sleeves. He supposed that was the point. He wouldn't care if this got destroyed. He wouldn't have chosen to wear it, but- he reached for Rosemary, and held her tightly against him for the first time since the day she was born. He was painfully aware that her open mouth was pressing against his shoulder, and he would undoubtedly have a charming puddle of baby drool there, but as he carefully turned her head to make sure she didn't suffocate against the fabric, he realised that he couldn't feel it soaking through to his shirt at all. It really was baby-proof.

Rosemary seemed to approve, cooing happily and slapping the material with open hands, though it was hard to tell if that was deliberate or involuntary. A surer sign was that when he turned her face towards him, she was positively beaming. His daughter had learnt how to smile and was bestowing her very first one on her father, on her daddy in his ridiculous Johnper.


	19. Eighteenth Cup: Bonding

A/N: Apologies for the lack of an update last week! It was a combination of being busy again and trying to work on one of the ideas suggested to me by **Kitten-Kath**. It was a lovely prompt that gave me too many ideas, so I already drafted it two different ways XD But I think third time will be a charm! In the meantime, though, I quickly wrote this out just so I'd have something to offer as an update… so please enjoy some father/daughter bonding :)

Eighteenth Cup: Bonding

Mycroft was a person of habit. The reason for this was simple; he had done almost everything that was worth doing. The other things he would come to in time. But to do things simply to 'try them' or 'for variety' was moronic. He knew what he liked and what he didn't, what was necessary and what was unnecessary. As such, he tended to stick with what he knew. He had no further conditions.

Coming out to the shopping centre that day had fallen into the category of 'necessary'. Unfortunately. Rosemary was now five months old, and had been slightly ill. It was a mild malady unworthy of real alarm, but none of them had been getting very much sleep. Mycroft had come home a few days before to find Rosemary crying her eyes out in the cot, and Edith lying on the bed, fast asleep. Mycroft had taken up his wailing daughter himself, carrying her into the nursery, trying to sooth her; but he was far less adept at it than his wife. He knew, of course, that at Rosemary's age the actual words of what he was saying mattered very little; that it was the tone and timbre of his voice that would comfort her, but the fact was undeniable that she finally settled when he explained to her that her mother was exhausted and would become ill herself if Rosemary did not calm down a little. The poor child had a slight temperature and what appeared to be a cold, but the sooner she could be taught not to make a fuss about such things, the happier she- and her parents- would be.

By the time the weekend came, Rosemary had been significantly better and they had even had an undisturbed night. However, Edith still looked tired, and when a school friend of hers called to say she was coming down to London for the day, Mycroft insisted she went to enjoy herself. She deserved the break- and anyway, she would probably have been quite peeved if he had _not _offered, although she would not have said so, and would have left him trying to guess what he had done wrong instead; as was her usual way. She had seemed quite happy at the prospect of seeing her friend again, however, and asked him directly if he was willing to have Rosemary for the day. Mycroft had answered of course, because it irritated him that she seemed to think him incapable. More likely, however, she had just been worrying that he and his daughter had not bonded sufficiently, and so was pushing them to spend more time together.

And so it was that after sufficient refresher training in nappy changing and bottle feeds, and many unnecessarily distraught hugs goodbye for the baby (which Mycroft bore with patiently, remembering that this was Edith's first period of separation since the child was born) the mother was finally dispatched and he had been alone with his daughter.

And they were doing splendidly, for about an hour or so, until the first nappy change came along. As extremely distasteful as this was, Mycroft felt on balance he had performed adequately enough; even without his wife's practiced dexterity. The problem was more that as he had taken the fresh nappy from the pack he realised there was only one other left in it. An exhaustive search revealed that in an unusual show of disorganisation, his wife had not bought another pack in advance; and he had a limited amount of time available to him in which to find some more.

Part of him was tempted to gamble; to assume that Rosemary would only need to be changed once more before her mother came home. However, it wasn't really worth the risk, not when the consequences of losing could be so dreadful. So, instead, he broke the habit of a lifetime and, dressing his daughter appropriately in a cardigan and shoes, and took her to the local shopping centre.

He had never set foot in there before and within seconds of passing through the automatic doors, he realised the assumptions he had made were all correct. If they were erroneous, it was just that it was _worse _than he had anticipated. It was stuffy, in spite of all the open atriums and sky lights, the light itself was harsh and glaring, reflecting off the hard, polished floor; it was teeming with people, milling about mindlessly between gaudy shop fronts. Rosemary began to whine, and Mycroft couldn't blame her. At least she had some taste. Pausing briefly to wipe her nose- rather humiliating in public, but at least he could be sure that none of his associates would see him here- he took hold of the pushchair handles and took the plunge. Rosemary was not yet fully recovered from her cold, and he did not want to expose her to any more germs than was absolutely necessary. He'd never seen such a mixing pot of bacteria before. There was a family with a five year old having a tantrum, right there in the middle of the walk way, while his parents did nothing but swear at him and he shouted them back. There were _teenagers_, playing _music_. He hurried on, eager to get in and out as soon as possible.

The truth was, he had no idea where nappies could be purchased from. Edith always did the shopping, and he had seen no reason to ask before. Therefore, at the first likely looking place he passed- _Mothercare_- he went in.

He might as well have set off fireworks, the amount of attention he garnered by this simple action. He began to feel irritated. At least the changing facilities, he'd noticed, had been renamed a _Parent and Child Room_. This shop had branding issues; they were excluding fathers by their very name. Although, admittedly, the large maternity section on the far side of the baby things might have something to do with it. At least the gaps between the shelves were wide enough to navigate the buggy reasonably easily, which was fortunate, as he circled around endlessly, unable to see anything even vaguely resembling nappies.

It was absurd. A shop that sold such frivolous things as baby fancy dress costumes should first supply the basic necessities and there was arguably nothing more basic and necessary than nappies. Rosemary had sneezed and was now grizzling miserably, too tired and fed up, it seemed, to build herself up to more than a whine. The sooner he could get her home, the better.

"Are you alright there?" A female voice asked. The blond woman that had been watching him since he had come in- another customer, not a member of staff- had finally come to talk to him, her own child strapped to her back in a carrier. Mycroft gripped the handles of the pushchair a little tighter. "You look lost." And she laughed, throwing back her hair in a way she clearly thought was appealing.

"I'm quite alright, thank you."

"Aww, and who is this?" She lent down to coo at Rosemary. "Aww, isn't she sweet! Hello, Princess."

Rosemary sneezed on her. Mycroft supressed a smile. Edith would have been very proud.

The woman laughed it off and attempted to smile engagingly, making small talk, asking all sorts of questions about Rosemary that Mycroft had no desire to answer, and not taking the hint.

"What was it you were looking for?" She asked. "I'm in here all the time, so I'm sure I'll be able to help. It can be so difficult when you're on your own, especially when they're being difficult."

Mycroft frowned. "She isn't being difficult, she just isn't very well. All things considered, her behaviour is exemplary."

"Oh, is she ill? The poor thing!" The woman said, immediately springing into a list of inane hints and tips in a transparent attempt to impress him. Deciding that the shop did not have what he needed, and that the woman who was flirting so ineptly with him was becoming intolerable, Mycroft calmly told her his wife was waiting for him and walked away, pausing only to take note of her face at the moment she realised he was not, in fact, a single father who would be as desperate as she was. Such were the perils of a father going alone into such a place, he supposed. And he still hadn't found any nappies. He would have to venture further into the shopping centre. It was only when he happened to pass a chemist that it occurred to him to go in. He found, to his relief, the nappies; and bought two packs. Deciding that was quite enough to be getting along with, he came out of the shop and turned straight around to head out.

Naturally, however, his trials weren't over. A few paces from the shop, he bumped into John. Mycroft did not want to meet _anyone _he knew just then. Rosemary was still sniffing miserably, he himself was tired from the disturbed nights, and he was frazzled from the day's events. And he was wearing a _Johnper_. In public. And now somebody had seen him.

And just to make things that little bit worse, not only was he wearing a jumper-such-as-Doctor-Watson might wear, he was wearing the _same _jumper as Doctor Watson was wearing at that very moment. John couldn't have looked much more surprised if it had been a pterodactyl strolling by, wearing a jumper the same as his. He at least had the grace to look slightly embarrassed, though he brushed it off and went to coo over Rosemary instead (who did not sneeze on him; Edith would have approved). Mycroft, more humiliated than he had ever been in his life, resisted the urge to flee. He had to regain control of this situation, somehow. To show his embarrassment was unthinkable, he had to brave through it.

So he greeted John with a cold, cool smile, just as he might have done had he been wearing a suit; and cut out the small talk, consulting with him instead about Rosemary's illness and Sherlock's latest case, acting for all the world as if he had come there deliberately to talk to John; that the jumper and the pushchair were just a clever domestic blind. He wasn't entirely sure John was convinced, but the man looked suspicious, so that was something. He ended the conversation and walked away. He just wanted to get home.

Rosemary had been sitting in the pushchair, making no sound except the occasional miserable snuffle. Mycroft had rather thought she was asleep, but then suddenly, he heard her excited babbling and she was straining against the straps of the pushchair, reaching out. Wondering what had caused the sudden burst of energy, Mycroft turned to see it was a store called Build-a-Bear, the kind of place where they stuffed and sewed up a teddy bear right in front of you. He wanted to move on and forget about it, get out of this wretched centre, but he had never seen his daughter so fascinated. And he wanted Edith to think he had done _well_. He wanted to be able to tell her that he and Rosemary had spent a lovely day together, and have it be true. Besides, the child had behaved so well throughout the ordeal, some sort of reward might encourage her good behaviour further. With this rationale, he took her in.

At five months old, she could not choose which she wanted, and Mycroft was not the sort to go through the pantomime of pretending she could. It was, unfortunately, undoubtedly the pink, sparkly rabbit that had caught Rosemary's eye and got her so excited.

"And I had such a high opinion of your taste before this, Rosemary." Mycroft said, taking the rabbit to be stuffed; slightly horrified when they asked if he wanted to put a _beating heart _into it. The answer to which was a resounding _no_. He could only imagine the conversations that must have taken place, after parents had persuaded their children the toy was alive, only to have the batteries run out. They still went through the pageantry of slipping a fabric heart in amongst the stuffing; though for whose benefit, Mycroft had no idea. Rosemary certainly didn't care about hearts beating or otherwise, she just wanted the glittering monstrosity as soon as possible. Yet there was still endless amounts of the production to go through. Did he want to buy clothes for the rabbit? No, he did not. Did he want to register the rabbit on the website? No, and he resented the waste of cyberspace it dedicated to people registering their teddy bears. Then the rabbit had to be _named_, and have a _birth certificate_.

Feeling utterly ludicrous (a worryingly common emotion that day) Mycroft sat down on the little bear-shaped stool, pondering at the keyboard. He knew it didn't matter, that _any _name would do, as long as it got him out of here quickly, but he still couldn't think of anything. Rosemary, now happily holding the rabbit and burbling too it, had no interest at all. Practice for her teenage years, perhaps. He felt rather silly.

He called the rabbit _Bunny_- he was not very imaginative- and, at last, took Rosemary home; feeling that he would be perfectly happy to never leave the house again.

Naturally, it was then and only then that Edith text him to say that she had forgotten to take the spare pack of nappies upstairs, but if he needed them they were in the carrier bag beneath the hall table. Mycroft fumed.

Then again, when Rosemary was lying there, digging her little hands into Bunny's lurid fur and giggling in happiness, it felt almost near worth it. Edith would consider her objective achieved, and everything would return to normal. As much as he was devoted to his daughter, some things were better left to his wife.


	20. Nineteenth Cup- Babysitting

A/N: This is the fourth draft of this chapter; I kept changing my mind about what exactly I wanted to do. It took a while, but I enjoyed it, and I'm quite happy with how it turned out. Although I should say this was written in one sitting on about two hours of sleep (I was supervising an overnight fundraiser) so it might be somewhat garbled XD And so, to **Kitten-Kath, **who won the baby name contest, thank you for the lovely idea and I hope you enjoy :)

Nineteenth Cup: Babysitting

It was a fairly sorry state of affairs all round.

At Scotland Yard, there had been too many cups of coffee, too many capitulations to cigarettes, too many questions and not enough answers.

At Baker Street, Mrs Hudson had found a lump in her breast and John insisted on taking her to the hospital to have it checked, even though Sherlock stubbornly refused to believe there was anything wrong with the landlady at all; he would not even acknowledge that there might be a lump. In fact, it was only Sherlock who was really enjoying himself that day. Lestrade was buried in the depths of an important kidnapping case, totally failing to see the enjoyment in it and unlikely to emerge any time soon without the consulting detective's guiding hand to pull him out. John and Mrs Hudson were at the hospital, while Molly was in Ibiza with her girl-friends, a holiday which, assuming it was running to the schedule in Sherlock's head, would just now be reaching the point of half-drunk, half-hungover bickering. Molly would undoubtedly be in tears by the end. It would be nothing short of a miracle if any of them came back still as friends, as Sherlock had warned her before she went. Mycroft had taken his wife away for the night to attend some _ghastly _gala evening, and for all these reasons, Sherlock had been left in soul charge of his young niece.

John had been insultingly worried about leaving the baby with him. The original plan had been that Mrs Hudson would take care of the child and he and John would continue working on Lestrade's case, but now that Mrs Hudson would be away for a few hours, Sherlock had been left with strict instructions, including, but not limited to: 1. Rosemary was not to be allowed to roam freely and unsupervised around the building lest she fall; 2. Rosemary was not to be allowed anywhere near the revolver, and neither was he, while she was there; 3. He was not ignore her if she cried; 4. He was not to go into his Mind Palace in case she cried and he didn't hear; and 5. Mycroft was not to know. As if he was an idiot. He was not to take Rosemary out, either, apparently because John saw something wrong with a baby accompanying Sherlock to crime scenes. In fact, after some arguments, John had expressly forbidden him to work on the case while he was babysitting. Sherlock thought this rather unfair. There was absolutely no reason, to his mind, that he couldn't do both.

And he wasn't as incapable with children as everyone seemed to think. He liked his niece, he could almost go so far as to say he was _fond _of her. John had been unable to hide his surprise when, the first time Edith brought the baby round, Sherlock had held her in his arms. But really, he liked Edith's baby for the same reason he liked Gladstone- babies were good listeners; almost as effective as John as a sounding board, and without interrupting with idiotic questions. Besides, children of that age were simple, uncomplicated, having only two emotions as far as Sherlock was concerned, happy or sad, which made them far more straight forward to understand. Sherlock didn't understand the reasons for almost eighty percent of John's emotional reactions, or he found the way John said he felt was not the way he _actually _felt. If Edith's baby was sad, it would cry, and if it wasn't, it wouldn't. Simple.

At that moment, for instance, Rosemary seemed quite happy. In spite of John's stern admonition to leave working on the case, Sherlock had decided to take the time to do some chemical tests on the forensic evidence that would confirm or deny his current suspicion that the whole kidnapping had been staged by the husband to commit an insurance scam with his wife. It didn't involve taking Rosemary to any crime scenes and it was even _educational_, if John wanted to object. Also, Mycroft would have been extremely angry if he knew, which was sufficient motivation to do almost anything. And so, Sherlock sat at the table, leaning forward to mix chemicals and carry out the tests, with Rosemary sitting happily in his lap. He had provided her with safety goggles in the spirit of being a _responsible adult_, (he was still bitter about John's reluctance to let him look after the girl) and an empty test tube to play with, which she seemed delighted with, turning it over in her small hands and chewing on sometimes, exploring it with her mouth as children would. Sherlock picked up another bottle, carefully adding a few drops into the existing solution.

"Now, Rosemary," He said, just as he might have said to John. "If this solution turns green, than we have our man."

"Green?" Rosemary repeated, just as John might have done. She had recently begun talking, adding more basic words to her vocabulary every day, and improving as a John substitute all the time. In the test tube, the solution changed colour to become a deep, emerald green. "Green!" She repeated, delighted, demonstrating to Sherlock's surprise that she did understand what the word meant, bashing her empty test tube against the green one in approval.

Ooooooooooooo

"I can't get it to sit right." Edith complained, tidying her hair for the umpteenth time. Mycroft couldn't see any difference every time she did it, but he wasn't foolish enough to say so. Instead he focused on the task she had given him, as he assisted her in zipping up her dress. It occurred to Mycroft that in all the time they had been married, this was the first time he had helped her to dress. Frankly, some small part of him was resisting the urge to take the zip the other way, or at the very least, lean forward and kiss her neck. But such a thing would have been rather uncharacteristic and vulgar- and at any rate, they didn't have time. They were staying in the hotel where the gala was to be held, but it was already begun and he wanted to join the party as soon as possible. It was high time Edith debuted.

The gala was one held annually by one of the lesser royals for the higher-ups of the civil and armed services. It was also the one social event of the year Mycroft ever attended, because he couldn't really afford not to. A lot of people- at his design- still didn't know who he was, but those who did ensured he always had an invitation. More agreements and _understandings _were come to at this strictly no-business social occasion than the rest of the year put together. To miss it was to miss a lot of vital information gathering and the chance to ingratiate himself with those it was necessary to. If ever you wanted the ear of a permanent secretary or a duke, this was the place to find it. It was a time for unspoken power plays and showing off, making links and bluffs, all under the veil of _mingling_. At the beginning of his career, it had been vital to his 'getting on'. Now, he could have the ear of anyone he wanted to, any time he wanted to, but it was still best to know what everyone else was doing.

He had, however, missed it the previous year- it had fallen when Edith was heavily pregnant and he hadn't dared leave her alone. He could not afford to absent himself again. Besides which, the gala was supposed to be a social event. The invited few were allowed to bring with them their spouses, mistresses, adult children- who, naturally, had a network of their own. Mycroft believed in keeping his work and his home life separate, keeping Edith deliberately vague on the exact nature of what he did, but the gala was a different affair entirely. Besides, he was proud of her. It was time for her to be introduced to the social elite. He was sure she would perform admirably.

"You look lovely, Edith," he reassured her. "But, come along, we really must get downstairs."

It was true. The dress, to her dismay, had cost more than the one she had worn for their wedding. However, it fitted perfectly and it looked ideal, so Mycroft was well satisfied. Edith probably would have been too, except that she was uncharacteristically nervous about meeting so many important people at her first serious black-tie event. Mycroft made a mental note to keep an eye on what she was drinking. She would never be so careless or so coarse as to get drunk, but she did have a tendency towards giggling after a few glasses, and nervousness might speed the process. Other than that, he had no concerns about how she would conduct herself, sure she would charm everyone through her gentle efficiency. He just hoped she enjoyed it. This was the first time they had been away alone together anywhere since Rosemary had been born.

Edith wasn't finding it easy, of course. It was only natural that her maternal instincts should make it difficult for her to be separated from her child, particularly as it was the first time, and it was overnight. She had been quite upset when they had first left Rosemary with Mrs Hudson; knowing of course that the landlady was quite capable, and that the experience of being away from her parents would be good for their daughter, but still she had felt it was somewhat unfair for their first separation to be such a long one. She felt she should have eased Rosemary into it gently, leaving her alone for a few hours at a time first and slowly building it up. A few minutes into the drive away, however, he could see her pulling herself together, taking a deep breath and laying her fretting aside as best she could. Mycroft was rather proud of her. He could tell it was still weighing with her; and perhaps as a father he could never quite appreciate the depths of a mother's feelings, but she was obviously determined to overcome it and enjoy the night for what it was.

He wasn't altogether easy about it himself, though the irrationality of the sentiment irked him. He had become quite the soft touch since his marriage, and fatherhood had changed him again. He knew he was surprisingly protective of his small family, and the idea of leaving Rosemary in hands other than Edith's made him uncomfortable. It was no matter, though. It was only natural, and Mrs Hudson could be trusted. Ideally he would have asked the Lestrades, their most frequent dinner guests, or perhaps Molly, who Rosemary knew best after her parents. Finding them unavailable, they had turned to the kindly lady who, Mycroft reasoned, could certainly handle a baby if she was able to handle Sherlock. John would also be there to make sure Sherlock could not exert too much of a bad influence on the infant. He had taken to his niece more than Mycroft had expected, to the point which Mycroft almost envied the ease with which Sherlock would scoop the child up and take her to show her this or that object of interest. She was the perfect audience to his showing off, delighted by anything he did, even when he tired of her and pushed her away. It didn't help that in looks they were becoming strikingly similar. To Mycroft's disappointment; Rosemary's hair had been coming through as thick and dark and curly as Sherlock's had ever been in childhood. He knew that it came from their mother, Rosemary's grandmother, but the fact was he had taken after his father and now Rosemary looked more like his brother than she did him. She was beautiful, of course, but it was infuriating all the same.

But Rosemary would be fine without them for the one night they were away. There was the gala to think of. He had always wanted to take Edith. He knew she would not make a fool of him in front of his peers; if anything, she was a wife he could be proud of. He just wished she would believe it too, as she nervously allowed him to take her arm and escort her down to the grand ballrooms where the event was being held.

She was the youngest of the wives there, of course, by quite a long way; most of the others were old enough to be her mother. Then again, Mycroft was one of the youngest men there under his own steam; not as the son of someone else. Even so, she was perfectly able to match them. She had undoubtedly matured since motherhood. She had never been given to whims anyway, but the last of her childish capriciousness had disappeared. Her figure, too, was softer and had lost its girlishness. There was the beginning of wrinkles around her eyes and across her forehead, from where they had been furrowed in thought. In his eyes, though, age and experience were improving her, like a good wine left to slowly come into its own. True, she had also become slightly less patient, and from time to time her efficiency had become positively militant, but Mycroft found he could even love the things he didn't like. As always, she was beautiful and practical, thoughtful about all manner of domestic arrangements and constant in her feelings. Even if she was short with him from time to time and they quarrelled, it never got out of proportion. He could not doubt her love, or his own.

Tonight she was truly outdoing herself. Her age helped, her hair and dress and make up made her something of a beauty, but what really won people over was her quiet respect and discretion. She had a respect for their position in society without losing her dignity, without giving off the aura that she shouldn't be there. Mycroft could see it flaring up whenever she was particularly star struck by some public personage or another, but he was her husband. He was meant to know her better than anyone. To the others, she seemed to carry herself very well. Above all, she was enjoying it. Her worries about Rosemary were being pushed more and more out of her mind, and he could sense her excitement and happiness through the fleeting squeezes of his arm, the fluttering touches of his hand, her exclamations of surprise at each new delight or introduction. She had never been to such a grand party, and it seemed she was clearly enjoying herself thoroughly.

Mycroft was glad. As hard as it had initially been to for her to separate from Rosemary, it was important they had time together as a couple too. He realised they had never done anything like this before they had children; in fact they had been on very few 'dates' even during their brief courtship. If anything, though, it was more important now. He had heard of marriages breaking down because once a child came along, the husband and wife were no longer the most important people to one another. It was important that they kept the foundations of the marriage stronger than just laying everything on Rosemary's shoulders. In short, he had decided to treat Edith better. She was what they would call 'low maintenance', but he would try to indulge her from time to time. He was pleased she was enjoying the gala. He was glad he could provide her with such an experience. For himself, it was enough to step back and watch her enjoy it.

"Mycroft?" She said, quietly, as he searched around for any more of his acquaintances it was important he showed his face to. The early-leavers had departed already, and it was almost time for them to leave too, and leave the rest of the night to the bachelors and the unmarried ladies of quality, to pack the politics away and turn to relations of a different kind. "Thank you for tonight."

"I'm glad you've enjoyed it."

"May I ask you one more favour?" She asked, moving closer to him. He turned to look down at her, glad at her forthrightness. One of her most annoying quirks was when her customary directness would disappear when it came to what she wanted, and she would leave him guessing. On the other hand, he had no idea what it could be. Surely she did not want to return to London tonight? It would be the early hours before they reached home, and the hotel was already booked- he decided to stop making assumptions, and let her phrase her argument.

"Of course."

"We've never danced together. There's dancing going on over there." She said, which wasn't a request, but her meaning was plain enough. She was quite correct, they had never danced together. Even their wedding reception had been music-free, as they had simply gone for a meal with some of their guests. This was because Mycroft detested dancing. He had never seen the appeal of getting so intimate with someone, pressing so close to them, making a spectacle of oneself in public, to music you could probably barely tolerate; whether it was the latest pop music or a three hundred year old waltz. He had of course asked Edith if she had wanted a full wedding reception, but she had favoured keeping it as simple and low-key as possible. He'd assumed dancing had been dismissed from their married life as part of the package, but her entreaty was in earnest.

In spite of his resolution to spoil her a little, he wasn't sure he could agree to her request. There were people around who still knew him, and while there was nothing wrong with dancing itself, there was his reputation to consider. Even if he had married and had a child, Mycroft Holmes did not do anything so frivolous as dancing.

She must have read his answer in his eyes, just as he saw the momentary look of disappointment in hers. However, neither of them said anything, and she pressed her lips briefly to his cheek in a moment of apology or forgiveness. After a few more brief conversations with various people of note, they went back to the hotel room. Edith thanked him for a lovely night, carefully removed her heels with some evident relief, and went into the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed.

Mycroft sat watching the news (they had not provided a newspaper, to his chagrin), but was unable to concentrate on what was happening on the screen. He was thinking of Rosemary, of course, who should have long since been put to bed. He wondered what Mrs Hudson had done with her during the day, what she had eaten, whether it had been healthy for her; what games they had played. He wondered if the child had missed her mother.

He was thinking about Rosemary in part to distract him from Edith, he knew. He knew he had wronged her. If she had bothered to even ask, she must have particularly wanted to dance. He could have managed it; laughed off any remarks about it with how one had to please one's wife, make a point of how marriage had changed him. The real reason, he was becoming uncomfortably aware, was that he was simply not very good at dancing. He'd had very little practice, but it had never been one of his talents. It was not that he lacked a certain elegance in his posture and movements, but he was totally void in any sense of rhythm. Fitting steps to a tune was entirely a wasted effort on his part. Needless to say, Sherlock had inherited the sum total of the musical talent between them. He could have danced with Edith quite easily, if he so wished, although of course he on no account would be persuaded to do so. Mycroft would merely have disappointed her and made a fool of himself in front of a room full of his colleagues.

Edith returned from the shower, coming back in wearing one of the dressing gowns, running a brush through her damp hair. Mycroft took a moment to appreciate her bare legs, then realised with a start that he was once again being plagued by carnal instincts. Quite possibly because, by his calculations, they hadn't been intimate with each other since Rosemary was conceived. It had just always been so busy, or the mood wasn't there, or there was no reason to spoil their quiet peace with anything else. He hadn't even noticed until now. He wondered if that was as important to her as dates and dancing.

"Edie…" He began, awkwardly. He was never quite sure how to initiate these things, or even if he should.

"Sherlock's sent me a message." She wasn't paying him any attention, picking up her phone with some surprise from where it was recharging on the bedside table. "He says… Rosemary is asleep downstairs with 'the pink monstrosity'- I assume he means Bunny- and Mrs Hudson's lump was nothing to worry about." She looked at Mycroft in bewilderment. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"No." Mycroft said, refusing to think about it. He could probably work it out, but he didn't want to. When his brother sent cryptic messages, it was often better not to deduce too much, especially when it set off alarm bells about what he might have done to Rosemary. He tried to put it out of his mind for the moment. He needed to focus on his wife. "Edith, I apologise. I can't dance."

"And on no account would." She replied, in a kind of exasperated amusement. "Don't worry, Mycroft, I've long since accepted that."

"Allow me to make it up to you." He tried, leaning in to kiss her. She obligingly kissed him back, but then gently pulled away.

"Mycroft Holmes, I don't believe we're the sort of couple to simply topple into bed with one another for the sake of it." She scolded lightly, straightening his collar. "I don't need you to be constantly trying to please me. Although," she added as a wicked after thought. "It is nice on occasion."

"Well, Edie, this is an occasion." He rubbed a hand over her shoulder, moving to roll the dressing gown off, but to his surprise, she stopped him. He wondered if she was angry about the dancing, but no, she didn't seem angry, just embarrassed. She was most definitely blushing. This was a new development. Mycroft decided he had to continue, but she took a step back, reddening more.

"Mycroft, darling, I'm sorry, but I _can't_." She said. "We're in a hotel!"

And suddenly it was like the early days of their marriage all over again. Edith had been extremely shy of him then, and one of her peculiarities was that she would not get intimate in a hotel room. For that reason, their match had not been consummated until _after _the honeymoon, by which point they were otherwise so well acquainted with one another there had been a fair amount of tumbling involved. He had assumed it was just an excuse, to hide the fact she hadn't been quite ready, but it seemed he had misunderstood.

"It just feels so… indecent. And _public_." She mumbled. She couldn't look at him. Suddenly and abruptly, she switched subject as if nothing had happened. "Why do you think it was Sherlock that contacted us? I thought he was working a case…"

"Edith." He reprimanded gently. "Rosemary will be fine. We will see her tomorrow morning. In the meantime, we should make the most of our time together- intimately or not."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft." She said, guiltily. "It's just, when I think of the maid coming in to change the sheets tomorrow-"

"Edith, Edith, it's quite alright." In all honesty, he was trying not to laugh. It was so much like their honeymoon. "It will be like our honeymoon all over again."

"Mycroft!" He had promised not to speak of it, of course. But then, the corners of her mouth were turning up, and all at once, she was laughing. "Yes, it can be exactly like that." She moved to him and put her arms around him, carefully keeping her damp hair away from his shirt, until he shifted his grip and pulled her ever so slightly closer. She was easily pleased, after all, and their night away could, on balance, probably be considered a success.

Ooooooooooooo

It had been lunch time when, to his great relief, Lestrade had seen Sherlock's number flash up on his caller ID. It might as well have been midnight, or dawn, or 29th February, for all the difference the time made to him just then. The woman had been missing for days, and the Yarders hadn't had a full night's sleep between them. Sherlock had claimed to be onto something and then disappeared without further explanation. As such, Lestrade did not waste words when he saw who was calling.

"Sherlock! Please tell me you have something."

"Green!" Crowed a delighted little voice. "Green, green!"

"What? Rosemary? Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock, not this _again_! She is not your bloody secretary! Come on the line right now!"

"Green!"

There was the sound of the phone being transferred and Sherlock's voice came on the line, clearly wearing a smirk. "You see, Lestrade? Even a child can solve this case."

"Just tell me what you have."

"Rosemary has already made a remarkably concise yet accurate report. 'Green'."

"Don't play around, Sherlock, green _what_?"

But Sherlock had already hung up. Lestrade scowled at in disbelief, but he wasn't going to give in and call back, begging for answers. He would rise to the challenge. He went out into the main office.

"Get Anderson up here. Ask him if there's anything in the forensic evidence that could turn out to be green."


	21. Twentieth Cup: Treasure

A/N: I'm sorry, guys, sometimes life gets crazy and I end up missing an update… I was going to save this until the weekend to put up, but as I didn't get one up last week I thought I'd put this up now. Needless to say, there probably won't be another chapter going up this weekend; but the one after that I'll try and return to a regular weekly-schedule. Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews, your comments and support mean a lot :)

Twentieth Cup: Treasure

"Daddy." Rosemary said impatiently, trying to worm her tiny hand into his in spite of the fact he was holding his umbrella. "Daddy!"

"Just a moment, please, Rosemary." Mycroft said, swapping his umbrella to his other hand. "There." He took her hand, and Rosemary beamed delightedly at him. The two of them had fallen into a kind of routine. Every Sunday afternoon, Mycroft would put away any work, steer clear of the office, and spend it with his family. Rosemary seemed to have decided that during that time she had the right to his undivided attention and was always delighted when he obliged. He supposed that to her, at just eighteen months old, just beginning to walk confidently, a week could seem like a very long time; however improbably frequently play time seemed to come in his eyes.

Today, as it was so hot, he and Rosemary and Edith were all spending some time out in the back garden. Years ago, when the Holmes family had been some kind of lesser gentry, the estate had been much larger; but over the years, the grounds had been impeached upon by the expansion of London and sales to lessen the expense of upkeep, until all that was left was a garden. It was still sizeable, particularly for a garden in the midst of the capital, but it was a comfortable distance to stroll with a young child clinging to your hand, half pulling you along and half using you to stay upright. She was giving him reproachful looks as she stumbled along, perhaps annoyed about the fact he had delayed her to rearrange his umbrella. Of course, she had nobody to blame but herself.

Ever since Rosemary had been able to pull herself upright on the umbrella stand in the hall, it had been her job to give Daddy his umbrella as he went out to work. This was a responsibility that she took so seriously that she would have been positively heartbroken if ever he had gone out without it, even on the most sunny of days. She was also a keen enough observer that he had as of yet been unable to sneak it back into the stand without her noticing and protesting loudly to the best of her vocabulary (currently limited to 'No, Daddy, no!') and giving it back to him again. And so the umbrella came everywhere with him, even in the summer.

Unfortunately, Rosemary was so thorough in her duties that this did not merely extend to when he was going to work. At any time when she saw him putting on a pair of outdoor shoes, she was sure to toddle off to the umbrella stand to retrieve the accessory that was larger even than she was. The tip of it, to Mycroft's eternal silent suffering, was quite scuffed from being dragged about in such a rough manner. Still, when one had children, one had to expect sacrifices; and, as it turned out, putting the umbrella up and down was an inexplicable source of amusement to Rosemary, and was a simple way of keeping her entertained. She had given him the umbrella again today when he had been preparing to go into the garden with her and her mother, and so, he had accordingly brought the umbrella along for their stroll.

"I thought," Edith said as Mycroft carefully braced his arm, hauling Rosemary back upright from losing her balance before she had chance to fall and waiting for her to toddle on again, "That we could take her in the potting shed. There's still some seeds and compost, she could do some planting."

Mycroft looked his daughter over carefully before nodding his consent. For reasons which neither of them could quite fathom, Rosemary displayed a definite preference for all things pink and sparkly. They had neither encouraged nor discouraged this; Rosemary had toys and clothes in all colours, her mother had no particular fondness for pink, and on one occasion Mycroft had even attempted to explain to Rosemary that she was under no pressure to bow to gender expectations; yet the preference had remained and was undeniable. To the best of Mycroft's knowledge, she had spent a good deal of the last week in a pink 'fairy princess' costume that sported both wings and a tiara and left a disproportionate amount of glitter in the most unlikely of places. It had originally come with a light up wand, but, after Mycroft found it several times smuggled into his briefcase amongst his work documents, and had once accidentally pulled it out in the middle of a highly sensitive diplomatic meeting with the head of the FBI, he and Edith had decided to confiscate it. It was a ridiculous toy for a child of that age anyway, and had been chewed on more than actually used. Today, however, Edith had not allowed Rosemary to have the costume on over her clothes, and had dressed her much more durably, in a hard wearing blue dress. It was much more her colour, Mycroft thought; his daughter still had the dark black curls of a Renaissance cherub, and pink was not flattering against them. Thanks to her mother's foresight, Rosemary was dressed perfectly acceptably for playing in the soil.

Mycroft passed her hand over to Edith. He would come and spectate, but he had no interest in getting involved in what was likely to be quite a messy process. Neither he nor Edith had an overwhelming interest in gardening, but with a botanist for a father, Edith had naturally acquired a certain level of knowledge and competence. In spite of her guiding and restraining hand, however, Mycroft doubted that anything Rosemary had planted would actually grow, as his daughter patted down the soil on top of the seeds with an enthusiasm that equalled ferocity; effectively pummelling it into submission. Still, there was no doubt she was having fun. She was certainly not shy of dirt, which she proved by coming and rubbing soil all over his trousers at the first sign of inattention from her parents. Edith scolded her of course, but she didn't seem much to care. Really, she was still just a little too young to understand. Mycroft frowned at his trousers, hoping they would wash clean, Edith assuring him that they would. There was no point going to change just yet, not when the offending activity was still going on, but he decided to move back out of harm's way.

As he stepped back, he noticed that one of the boards on the wall of the shed was a different colour to the rest. Looking more closely, he realised it was a small cardboard panel that had been glued over the actual wall, probably to make a small secret compartment, just big enough to secrete some private documents. This was not so far-fetched a deduction as it might have seemed. Sherlock had gone through a phase of creating such hiding places all over the house during his childhood, and on occasion Mycroft still fell upon them in the lesser frequented rooms. He had a fairly good idea what would be inside it too, and pulled on it with a sigh.

It took a little work to get it off, the superglue cracking with age. By that time he had caught his wife's attention and had been forced to explain. As he expected, a piece of folded paper, yellowed with age and deliberately and carefully frayed at the edges to look more authentic, fell to the floor once the cover had been lifted off. Rosemary picked it up curiously and presented it to her mother to unfold.

As Mycroft had predicted, it was a treasure map. During his pirate phase, Sherlock had made endless maps, drawn out in meticulous detail, to indicate the location of his buried treasure. The problem had been that neither the burying nor the treasure was ever imaginary. Mycroft had grown rather tired of having to dig up his private possessions from various corners of the back garden. Who knew what long forgotten trinket, buried for some twenty-five years, would be discovered at the spot marked with an X?

"There's only one way to find out." Edith said. "What do you think, Rosie? Shall we see if we can find Uncle Sherlock's treasure?"

"Yes!" Rosemary said, clapping her soiled hands happily. Edith tidied her up with the wet wipes she carried on her person at all times, and then they set off, Edith helping their daughter, Mycroft carrying a small trowel so they could dig when they arrived. Rosemary carried the map, waving it around and making it generally impossible for any of them to refer to it.

Mycroft could identify with reasonable confidence the spot on the map. For a child of five, Sherlock's cartography had been exceptionably good, and the two trees drawn at the edge of the flower border, forming the corner of a right-angled triangle between the potting shed and the conservatory could only be the ancient old oak and elm that had grown there before anyone could remember. He remembered playing in those trees when they were boys; his was the oak, Sherlock's was the elm, and Sherlock made him compete to see who could climb the highest in them. Sherlock used to spend hours hiding in the branches of that tree, it made sense he would have buried some treasure there. Mycroft wondered that he hadn't found anything before. On the other hand, as was the way with trees with such large and spreading roots, the turf between them was scrubby at best. Mycroft didn't really want to disturb it further by digging up what was there.

Thankfully, however, it seemed this was not their final destination. The map, when prised away from Rosemary's protesting hands, was proven to also provide clues; a route to the treasure from the X. Of course Sherlock would not have made it simple even at the tender age of five or six. Instructions were written in his childish hand, which was, under the influence of schoolmasters, actually a lot neater than his adult one:

_North 10 X 10_

_ East 5 X 5_

_ South 2 X 2_

_ West 1 X 1_

"What does that mean?" Edith asked, mystified. "Some sort of numeric code?"

"Nothing so complicated; Sherlock never had any patience for riddles." Mycroft dismissed. "It's simple directions. If we assume one of his paces back then would have been roughly half what mine is now, I think we can find this 'treasure' without very much difficulty. Come along."

They came along. Mycroft went first, pacing out the measurements as best as he could, using the umbrella as a kind of yard stick to mark where he counted them out aloud, trying to educate Rosemary. She seemed delighted with the whole adventure, swinging on Edith's arm and repeating the numbers as best she could after her father, though Mycroft was not convinced she had completely grasped their meaning and saying 'seven' and anything ending in '-teen' proved themselves a little beyond her vocabulary's capability. However, she clearly had remarkable concentration for her age; most toddlers would have been distracted from the goal long before they reached it, but Rosemary continued to keep plodding along behind him, copying what he said, without losing focus. Mycroft felt rather proud as he worked his way through the needlessly convoluted instructions and arrived at a random point at the edge of the garden, just slightly to one side of a large bush.

"I imagine it will be behind the bush." He said. "The size of my pacing may have been slightly inaccurate, and if he wanted to bury things in the garden he had to do it well out of sight, where he wouldn't get caught."

"I see." Edith said, seeming amused. "Is Rosie alright to dig there?"

"Certainly, but I don't think I will join you in the mud if it can be avoided."

"Don't worry, Mycroft, I shall be the sacrifice to the dirt." Edith said, not vulgar enough to actually roll her eyes at him, but expressing the sentiment well enough through her tone. She picked Rosemary up and went onto the flower border, squeezing to get through the flowers, finally depositing the child in the gap between the bush and the hedge. Mycroft passed the trowel over.

"It shouldn't be buried deep." He said, by way of apology. Sherlock had enjoyed digging holes as a child and would undoubtedly have dug as deep as he possibly could, if left to his own devices, but his unsupervised time without being checked up on would have been limited, so most of his treasures had been left just below the surface.

"Alright." Edith gave the tool to her daughter. "There you are, Rosie. Let's have a dig around here and see if we can find Uncle Sherlock's treasure."

Mycroft watched with only half his attention as Edith assisted Rosemary in turning over the ground, searching for who knew what. Some ill-fated toy in a treasure chest made of an empty margarine tub, perhaps; or one of Mycroft's old school books stolen out of spite, or library books Sherlock had wanted to keep forever. When Rosemary suddenly declared a delighted '_Aha!' _a few moments later- and who knew where she had picked that up; Mycroft had never said 'aha' in his life- he turned to pay proper attention as Edith, grimacing slightly at the dirt, took over and worked the object out.

"It looks like a jewellery box." She said, mystified.

"What?" Mycroft asked, but there was no need for further questions as she held it up. Soil-covered and damaged as it was from its long sojourn beneath the ground, it was undoubtedly a jewellery box, and one Mycroft recognised.

"That was one of our mother's! Please tell me he at least took the jewellery out."

Ignoring for the moment Rosemary's begging to see, Edith managed to pull the lid open. Inside, of course, it was half full of jewellery of gold and silver worth several hundred pounds at least. Mycroft had known it would. He remembered the box going missing, the police being called. He remembered questioning Sherlock himself, at length, but the boy had denied all knowledge. In the end, the blame had fallen on one of their parents' friends, who, although never proven guilty, was never invited back to the house again. That friend was now a cabinet minister, who made of a point of disagreeing with anything the civil service put forward that could be attributed to Mycroft, which was almost everything. It was hugely inconvenient and time consuming and all caused by a jewellery box that Sherlock had buried in the back garden.

Turning away from his wife, Mycroft allowed himself to indulge in a brief fantasy of going round to Baker Street and smashing Sherlock's beloved violin to pieces. Then he contented himself with a text message.

_Sent 2:37 PM_

_I've just found mother's stolen jewellery box. I always said you were lying. M_

Sherlock, naturally, was entirely unrepentant.

**Sent 2:38 PM**

**And I always said you were slow. Only half the jewels are in that box. Good luck finding the rest. SH **


	22. Twenty-First Cup: Brothers

A/N: I talked about regular updates, last time, didn't I? I lied. I'm going on holiday tomorrow so there probably won't be an update next week, ahaha. In the meantime, this!:

Twenty-First Cup: Brothers

Time was moving on. John found he was spending less and less time in his Baker Street home, and more time with his girlfriend; less on cases and adventures and more with an almost-full-time job. Sherlock was coping better than expected with the changes, not able to understand _why _John might want a more settled life style, but accepting it all the same. He was as busy as ever with cases, dragging John with him as much as possible but carrying on regardless when he wasn't around. John had returned late one afternoon having spent the day and the previous night at his girlfriend's, to find Sherlock was gone. He didn't come home that night, and it was only just as John was making lunch the following day that Sherlock finally stumbled through the door, immediately collapsing backwards onto the settee and lying there on his back, grunting in greeting.

"Difficult case, was it?" John called from the kitchen, gaining another grunt. Clearly he wasn't ready for conversation yet. Finishing the construction of his sandwich, John headed into the lounge to join him.

It struck him immediately that Sherlock did not look well. The detective was pale and was already lying with his eyes closed, his hair more tousled and his clothes more rumpled than usual. His coat had been discarded on the floor and as he shifted his weight, trying to get more comfortable, John realised his sleeve was rolled up above the elbow, and there was a piece of cotton wading stuck to his arm.

His first thought was drugs; that the dark curtain that had long since hung over Sherlock's past had finally dropped again; John did not know the details but sometimes got the impression that Sherlock's problems had been serious. However, his brain quickly followed up the thrill of horror with the quiet realisation that if Sherlock really had been shooting up, it wouldn't have been bandaged so carefully, professionally, like that. He could see a slight stain of blood beginning to come through. Sherlock, cracking his eyes open again, followed John's gaze but said nothing.

"What happened to you?" John asked.

"Nothing important." Sherlock answered lazily, and then he suddenly snapped to alertness. "Oh, I left Edith's baby downstairs. Can you fetch her?"

"What? Sherlock!" The admonition slipped out without him meaning it to. Yes, Sherlock had abandoned Rosemary somewhere, but really, John doubted Sherlock would have had the strength to carry the child up the seventeen steep steps. The creeping feeling of fear had returned, waiting for answers that weren't forthcoming. Something had happened.

Still, first things first, he should check on the baby. Not that Rosemary was such a baby any more, having had her second birthday a few months before. John found her asleep at the foot of the stairs, snuffling miserably to herself. He had to hold back a gasp when he saw her. Doctor or not, there was something inherently wrong about seeing a child injured. The right side of Rosemary's face was almost black with ugly bruising and patches of swelling. Sleep was probably the best thing for her; it must have been painful. Trying not to rouse her, John gently pressed his fingers to them, checking to see how bad they were. Thankfully, it seemed the injury wasn't as bad as it looked and although she winced, Rosemary remained asleep. John's fingers came away slightly greasy- like Sherlock, she seemed to have been professionally treated, to have already had a salve applied. She had probably already been given some Calpol too, to fight the pain. Realising there was nothing else he could do to help, John picked her up, rubbing her back to try and soothe the stirring infant back into sleep. It seemed to work and he got her up to the flat without further incident.

"Is she alright?" Sherlock demanded immediately from the settee.

"You mean other than the fact she looks like someone's smashed half her face in, yes. She's asleep." John looked at him, worried. Sherlock really was quite pale. "What happened, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft's wife asked us to watch her tonight."

"I gathered that, Sherlock, what I want to know is why she wants us to and why her two-year-old daughter looks like she's been beaten by a gang of thugs!"

Sherlock seemed to be pondering this, surveying Rosemary with a critical eye. "Punches wouldn't make bruises like that." He said.

"Sherlock! I'm serious, what's going on?"

"Nothing." Sherlock answered. "They were hit by another car coming home; probably deliberately given the nature of Mycroft's work and the fact the other driver was fine. Edith's broken her arm but otherwise no worse for wear, the driver is being dealt with by some men in suits and Rosemary has a face like a black forest gateau, but is otherwise fine."

"And your brother?"

"He's fine." Sherlock said, slightly too quickly.

"Is he? If they were trying to kill him-"

"He lost some blood, but he's fine now."

John eyed the wool on his friend's arm again. It didn't take much to work out what had happened. "Cup of tea?" He asked.

"Mm." Sherlock grunted, and, after depositing Rosemary safely onto an armchair, John went to the kitchen to make it.

Ooooooooooooo

Mycroft did not believe in struggling. He was waking up slowly, gradually, slipping back and forth between being conscious and being out cold, but there was no sense in rushing these things. It was almost pleasant. He felt somewhat light-headed, more relaxed than he had done for, well, probably than he had ever done. There was no hurry to wake up. Or to do anything, really. Unlike his brother, Mycroft enjoyed patient progress, he would take method over the mad dash. Sherlock had once made a rather cutting comment that if the art of detection began and ended in an armchair, Mycroft would be the best at it. It was a double-edged compliment at best, but in reality, a quite apt description. He simply did not have Sherlock's energy, and certainly wouldn't have the motivation to run around solving crimes for the sake of it. Oh, he enjoyed solving the little problems, but purely as an academic exercise; he did not have Sherlock's burning need to be proven right.

He wasn't sure what had made him think of Sherlock. Perhaps he had heard his voice, peripherally, out there on the edge of his consciousness. He was aware of what had happened, of course. They had been in the car. He'd noticed they were being followed. He'd given the driver new directions, but they had been unable to shake off the other car. He'd tried to brush off Edith's questions. And finally, at last, just as they had been rounding the corner, the other car had slammed into them, into _him_, with as much force as it could.

He felt a dim sense of relief to be waking up at all, however slowly. It could have been so much worse. Whoever it was had clearly intended to kill him and had very nearly succeeded in doing so. They had caught him by now, Mycroft supposed; his esteemed colleagues had known someone was watching him for days, they just hadn't expected the attack to come so soon. He should have been more careful, particularly when he'd had Edith and Rosemary in the car with him.

It occurred to him at last that it was possible that Edith and Rosemary _weren't _alright, and he finally struggled to wake up. It was only for his wife, he noted, that he ever rushed anything. He opened his eyes, but Edith wasn't there.

It didn't mean anything untoward had happened to her, of course. She could hardly be expected to keep a bedside vigil when there was no knowing when he would regain consciousness, and when there was their child to think of. Edith was probably fine, and behaving as practically-minded as ever. Mycroft rather suspected she was the reason he had survived to begin with. His enemies had no problems with his wife, and no need to kill innocents unnecessarily. They had perhaps gone easy on him in order to try and ensure his family survived. At least these particular assassins were being gentlemen about it. It was just an occupational hazard when you did a job such as his; although Mycroft was slightly concerned at how his name was apparently becoming more and more well known in such circles. He would have to be more cautious in future.

Edith still hadn't come. Still, he wasn't in any pain, not really. There was a strange, suspended sense of discomfort and an odd haze to the room that suggested this was due to a surplus of morphine. The sensation had seemed pleasant, but he was noticing it more now. It was dulling him, dulling his senses, taking the edge off everything. He looked around, trying to see if his wife had been there; but the only clue was some flowers on the window sill and that could just have easily have come from the hospital staff. Speaking of staff, for all the money he was paying to be in what appeared to be the Wellington, one should have appeared by now, surely. He found a control panel near his shoulder which included a button to call a nurse and attempted to press it. His movements were sluggish and inaccurate, there were drips in his arm getting in the way- one of them was half-full of something viscous and blood red. In fact, it was more than likely a blood transfusion. Oh dear. Perhaps the morphine was quite necessary after all. His arm was still being disobedient. He would just have to wait.

He waited, trying not to fall asleep again. Being in hospital was undignified enough, without being asleep in the middle of the afternoon. Besides, if when a staff member _eventually _checked on him he appeared to still be out cold, he would not be able to press them for information about his wife. And so he waited. He seemed to have misplaced all sense of time, it was unendurable. Everything was suspended.

Edith came in before any of the nurses did, carrying a cup of tea. She had not been long absent from the room, then, or perhaps she had just arrived. She came in slowly, operating the door handle with her elbow, because one hand held the mug and the other was bound in a sling. Her sleeve slipped back as she did so, revealing a graze on the other arm, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. His breath came a little easier.

She hadn't noticed he was awake, concentrating on not spilling her drink. Mycroft didn't want to startle her, he wanted to watch her just for a moment and take in the fact she was alive and mostly well. He didn't feel guilty about what had happened, not really, not yet. It was probably the morphine.

"Mycroft?" She had set down her mug, looked to the bed. She smiled. "Hello."

"Hello."

She settled down in the chair beside his bed, sipping her tea. "Rosemary's fine, a little bruised but nothing broken. My arm is broken but not too badly. Your injuries were mainly to your shoulder and the back of your head. I'm afraid you've no hair at the moment, but it should grow back. You've been unconscious for about twelve hours; I was able to get Rosemary out of the car but you had to be rescued by the fire service because the metal had buckled. You needed an emergency blood transfusion, but you should be fine." She paused, apparently considering this string of short, admirably concise statements. "Does that answer all your questions, dear?"

"Quite." The response was of course, quite inadequate. No-one else could have anticipated him in such a way, made the report so clearly and quickly, exactly as he would have wanted it. He was suddenly reminded of Edith as he had first known her, at the Diogenes Club; where her thorough and methodical approach to her work had attracted him to begin with. He loved her. It was so much more than camomile tea added to his tray now. He wondered if she knew.

"How do you feel?"

"Drugged."

"It's for your own good." She sighed, and leant over to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I've been so worried. You could have died." She glanced up at the blood bag, still dripping down into his arm. "You realise how rare your blood type is, don't you? AB Negative. They said only one per cent of the population have that, they had to really scrape together to find enough."

"Of course." He said, wondering why she expected anything else. "My mother is too."

"And Sherlock." She added.

"Yes." He confirmed, frowning, wondering how she knew. He glanced at the transfusion again, wondering.

"He told me the truth, Mycroft." She said, quietly. "He told me what your work really was like. You've always been so vague about it, I assumed you were more than just an ordinary clerk, but… if it puts Rosemary and I at risk, I had a right to know. I'm sorry."

_No. _Mycroft was surprised at the vehemence of feeling that seeped through the haze. He didn't remember ever feeling anger and horror this extreme, he didn't even know he was capable of it. Sherlock had no right to tell her how important his work was, how many decisions he had to make, how much sometimes depended on him doing dark things, awful things, for the greater good. He didn't want her to know. He didn't want her to know how the world worked, what manner of man he actually was. There was a reason people like him were needed to do work like his; because not many people could have coped, could have understood. To his surprise, Edith took his hand and squeezed it gently.

"I'm proud of you." She said, briefly. "But I want to leave London. All of us. You can commute. But this is our family, Mycroft, we can't carry on risking them like this."

"I'm sorry." He said, trying to focus on what she was saying- trying to work out if they could move, where they would move to, what would happen to the family home- but instead all he could think of were her words. She'd said she was proud of him. Of what he did. She wouldn't like some of the decisions he had made, he knew that much, but perhaps she still didn't know. Perhaps Sherlock had spared her that much. Or perhaps she did know, and perhaps she had realised that someone had to decide those things. Perhaps she really was proud of him. He had always wondered what would happen if she ever found out, perhaps now he had his answer.

The rage had gone, receded back into the fog. He knew he should have been worried, troubled by guilt, and he was; but there was happiness too, a gladness. He had Edith's trust and her love, even when she knew all. Perhaps she had always known, somehow, what kind of man he was.

What he really wanted to know was how Sherlock had known the time was right to tell her. It might have been righteous indigence, perhaps he disapproved of Mycroft's family being at risk and had told her under that prerogative. Or perhaps it was the same as before, when he had told Edith to quit her job if she wanted Mycroft to ask her to dinner, and been right; when he had just grown tired of all the pussy-footing around and wanted to move things along. Perhaps it was both, or neither; Mycroft knew Sherlock better than anyone except perhaps John, and he still wouldn't venture to guess at half the things in his brother's head, even if his blood was now in his veins.

Sherlock had probably helped save his life, probably for Edith's sake, and Rosemary's sake, but still. How very unbearable.


	23. Twenty-Second Cup: Moving House

A/N: Hello hello, I'm back. I wanted to get a chapter up at the weekend so I sat down today to start, but it turned into one of those rare and lovely days where it just flows and comes easily in one sitting. This is probably just because this one is just pure fluff, but there we go. A lot of people requested this, so I hope you enjoy…

Twenty-Second Cup- Moving House

It made one's life and work seem very meagre when it was all packed up in boxes and vans, waiting to be taken away. Not that it was everything, not by a long stretch. Moving they might have been, but there had never been any question of actually selling the house. It had, after all, been in the family for generations. They were also leaving much of the furniture behind; some because it was as old as the house and belonged there, some left in case Mycroft needed to spend the occasional night in London, and some because it was simply too big for their new house.

Edith had been very clear about what she wanted. She wanted to get out of London, move somewhere quieter, cleaner and more secluded, where she and the children were further from Mycroft's work and his enemies; but not so far that it would be impossible for Mycroft to commute. She had not asked him to give up his job, for which Mycroft was grateful, but she didn't want him to be the sort of father who was in the city all week and returned home only at the weekend. They had talked more since his return from hospital, about his work, about these occasional attempts to do away with him. It had felt strange to discuss it with her, who he had never quite trusted with it before. He had never forgotten what she had said after the incident with Loup; that she understood his decision was for the greater good, but that she would have chosen him. Knowing that, how could he think she would understand? Decisions like that were his work. He had to be unsentimental, hard; people had to be reduced to numbers and pawns and politics. Sometimes there were sacrifices, sometimes someone had to draw the short straw, to lose out. His job was to be an overseer of all that was going on, at home and abroad; to be the liaison between the different departments and ministries, making sure the work of one didn't compromise the other. Sometimes, too, he acted as a kind of freelance consultant for other nations; but he didn't come cheap, and he always worked to Britain's advantage. He was patriotic above all else.

Edith hadn't been altogether surprised. She had been prepared, of course, by Sherlock's revelations, but even before that she had suspected that her husband's job was not as humble as the buzzword title _Interdepartmental Co-ordinator _made it sound. She knew the worst of him now, the worst things he had done. It had shaken her, but not terminally. In fact, she had told him, whispered to him when he came to bed the night he was released from the hospital, that she had always known in the back of her mind that the government must have had someone making the tough decisions, and that she was glad if it had to be anyone, that it was him. She finally told him what she had been unable to at the hospital, that the idea of losing him hadn't been terrifying, it had been entirely unthinkable. She'd said she simply hadn't been able to imagine what they would have done if he'd died; she couldn't imagine that life would have continued. Mycroft had been humbled, flattered, by this and wanted to show her that it was understood, reciprocated; he wanted to reassure her. So he had, though he'd barely said a word, and that was the first night they had literally fallen asleep in each other's arms. He'd had terrible cramp in the morning from lying in such an awkward position, but considered it entirely worth the discomfort, considering the night before. Perhaps he'd taken some of Sherlock's energy along with his blood.

The business of moving house had turned out to be a surprisingly good illustration of how much had changed, how much his world had expanded, since his marriage; so gently that he hadn't even really noticed it happening. So much of the furniture had been left, that before his wedding there wouldn't have been any perceivable change. Now, without their personal effects, the house looked utterly desolate. Edith was by no means an untidy person, she had not brought anything that could be described as 'clutter' into the house; but the shelves stood empty without her books, the wall seemed much barer without their wedding photo, and the colour seemed to have seeped out of the room without the vase Molly had bought Edith for her last birthday, which his wife had always carefully kept full of flowers and out of Rosemary's reach. Rosemary's impact on the house had also been systematically removed room by room, the cot and high chair dismantled ready to be reassembled at the new house, her toys gathered up from all the hidey-holes in the house and garden that had escaped Edith before and packed into boxes, her clothes sorted and the ones that were too small for her being donated and the more recent being put into a suitcase and loaded into the removals van with the rest. The van had gone now, and the house seemed clean, unlived in, and very empty.

They had been round shutting up the rooms, covering the furniture that needed protecting with dust sheets, turning round the ghastly old portraits that still hung in some of the upstairs rooms to face the wall so the sun would not fade them. Mycroft and his wife were perfectly agreed that they were revolting, but unfortunately they were too valuable, both financially and in terms of family history, to dispose of. They were hoping that Mycroft would not have to spend more than the occasional night here, only when he was kept drastically late at work, so left only a couple of rooms ready for that purpose. As usual, this was Edith's forethought and planning, taking the odd piece of furniture from other rooms here and there until she had somehow turned an ensuite bedroom and what had been a box room into a comfortable apartment that would suit him perfectly for a night or two. The only room his wife had not been quite sure what to do with had been Sherlock's.

Mycroft could never be quite sure why he had let Sherlock retain ownership of the last corner at the back of the house for so long. Of course, they had been quite young when Mycroft had inherited the property, and there had been a need for him to have a bedroom during the holidays for a number of years. However, even when Sherlock had grown into an independent adult, he had still expected the room to remain available and untouched, ready for his use at any time without notice. He had dropped in from time to time, when having a different base of operations was useful or necessary to a case. Fairly often on these occasions, they wouldn't even see each other, Mycroft simply deducing that his brother had bedded down there for a night by the signs in the house. It had never been longer than a night, not since Sherlock had been at university and had suddenly and silently appeared, staying for ten days while he was detoxing from the various drug abuses he'd stumbled into. Those days had been hell for them both, and marked the longest period of absence Mycroft had ever taken from work. They never talked about it.

Since his wedding, the visits had stopped entirely as far as Mycroft knew, but it still left the question of what was to be done with the room. Finally deciding that Sherlock had never liked Mycroft touching his things anyway, they had simply shut the door and left the room as it was and as it had been since Sherlock's childhood. It was possible, Mycroft supposed, that once he and Edith had moved, the occasional night time visits would resume. It was likely. Sometimes it was helpful in Sherlock's work to have a place to lie low.

Edith was in what remained of the lounge when he found her, looking at the fireplace. This was one of the few rooms they had taken the furniture out of, because they were both too fond of the armchairs to leave them behind and the rest of the furniture had been bought to match, even the rugs that covered the panelled floor. Edith would miss the fireplace, though, he knew. The new house, a modest, detached little three-up-three-down in a semi-rural village about an hour out into the countryside, did not have a proper fireplace like this one; and this had always been Edith's favourite place in the house. Perhaps they would be able to open the flue and have one fitted in the new place.

"Edith." He said, making her aware of his presence. She looked up from her contemplations and smiled.

"We're ready, I think." She said. "We just need to go and collect Rosemary and then we can go."

Mycroft nodded his assent. "Very well."

"I'll miss this place, in some ways." She commented. "I love the new house, I think it will be much more manageable, more of a family home, but… well. This was our first home together."

"We still own it, Edie." He reminded her. "You can come back at any time."

"Yes, I know." She said. "But so much happened in here…"

Mycroft looked at the room himself. It looked much bigger, now that it was empty, and their voices had a curious echo on the bare floor. She was right, of course. It was in here that she had told him she was pregnant, in here was where they had brought their daughter on coming home from the hospital, in here Rosemary had said her first words and taken her first steps. It was in here, too, that he had first framed those essential words, and told her that he loved her. So many decisions had been made before this fireplace, and when he thought of their marriage, he always thought of their armchairs sitting before it. He could see, he supposed, why Edith might be getting sentimental about this room. And he knew that, in that moment, he had it in his power to make her very happy indeed. He could indulge her at his own expense, although nobody would see it but her. He wouldn't enjoy it, but she would. She would probably always look back on the moment fondly. She had been so good to him recently, it would be a good way to return the favour. If he did it, and could bring himself to do it.

He cleared his throat. Sometimes thinking things over would do more harm than good. Sometimes you just had to jump in. Being impulsive did not exactly come naturally to him, but sometimes it didn't hurt to make an approximation of it. "Edith?"

"Yes?"

"There's more room now. Would you care to dance?"

"Here?" Clearly his suggestion had taken her completely by surprise. "We could, but there's no music."

"I assure you, Edie, when I am your partner music would make very little difference anyway."

She laughed. "Nonsense. I'm sure you're very elegant."

She was wrong, of course, and the ten or eleven times he stepped on her feet as they turned slowly about the room surely proved it. Mycroft could not see the appeal, the whole thing felt extremely foolish. The movement, far from an elegant glide, felt awkward and unnatural and his body wasn't quite sure how to execute it. Nor did he know how and where to put his arms, or how to hold hers. Several times she had to wriggle her way free, shift his hand or his grip slightly, and try as he might, Mycroft was aware that the beat he was following in his head was not an altogether regular one. Even when Edith began quietly counting, it made very little difference. They laboured on for a while, until, obviously sensing how uncomfortable he was, Edith gently brought them to a halt. Mycroft couldn't quite meet her eye. It suddenly occurred to him that she was probably disappointed. If she had built her hopes on dancing with him, she had probably hoped for more than turning in imperfect, halting circles in their silent, empty living room.

"Forgive me." He said.

"I thought you were very distinguished." She said, not sounding entirely serious. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, deciding that sentiment didn't need a verbal rebuke to discredit it. A laugh escaped between her lips, but if the way she put her hands around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her suggested she wasn't disappointed after all, not in the slightest.

Ooooooooooooo

A/N: There, did you all enjoy that? I couldn't help but think of that scene in _Hello Dolly _with the dancing as I wrote this; in fact I had it on in the background. The song is called 'Dancing', too, in fact, so look it up if you don't know it :P


	24. Twenty-Third Cup: Education

A/N: I hadn't even started this chapter until this morning, and then suddenly realised that with a busy weekend ahead, if I was going to get one done I would have to write it entirely today. So I did :) It might seem a bit rushed in places, so sorry about that, but I have a job to get to later, haha. I actually had a lot of fun writing this one, so I hope you do too. However, this one probably has the most 'references' to cultural stuff of any so far, so I hope everyone can make sense of them. I apologise to anyone from foreign parts if they don't have international reach, and particular apologies to Mr Harry Styles, because Mycroft would _not _know who he was; and feminists everywhere, for Mycroft's old-fashioned and erroneous attitudes. Yes. XD

Finally, just in case anyone needs it, here is a quick guide to British schooling; just because I wish some American fics would provide this for me! I don't understand it at all… Anyway, if you're interested in an account unnecessarily detailed for and largely irrelevant to this story, here it is; if not, please skip past the bold text and enjoy the chapter!

_**School System in (most of) England-**_

**Public School= Private, fee-paying school**

**State School= free to attended, state funded; also called by slightly out of date term 'grant-maintained'. **

**Grammar School vs. Comprehensive School= Archaic now, but still pops up now and again- until the 1950s/1960s, all 11 year olds had to sit exams and the ones with better results would attend the grammar school, and the rest would attend the local comprehensive. Today, the exam is not compulsory; but there are still a few fancy grammar schools that require it for entry. **

**Nursery School- Attended in some form by all children at the age of three. It can be part time or full time.**

**Primary School- Begins with the Reception class at age 4, and then continues until the age of 11, with Years 1-6. Reception and Years 1 and 2 are classed as Infant School and Years 3-6 are Junior School. In the final year, pupils take SAT tests in English, Maths and Science.**

**Secondary School- Years 7-11, or age 11-16. At the end of this period, students generally take GCSE exams in any number of subjects, although nowadays a lot of schools are introducing vocational qualifications and the IB. **

**Sixth Form College- Generally age 16-18. Sometimes this is attached to the Secondary School, sometimes it isn't. Students can take A-levels in more academic subjects or various vocational courses depending on the institution. Again, depending on the institution, adult learners can often attend too. Known as 'Further Education'.**

**University- Age 18+. Entry will depend on 'UCAS points', basically your grades in further education. Usually paid for with government-sponsored student loans. Known as 'Higher Education'. **

And there we have it. :) Onward!

Twenty-third Cup: Education

It would seem that to his daughter, having her father take her to nursery school was the most exciting thing in the world. Well, it was understandable in one sense. Although they were well into the academic year, this was the first time Mycroft had taken her. So now he stood on the curb, waiting to cross the road, with the dog lead wrapped tightly around one hand and the other clinging to his _I'm-not-three-because-I'm-almost-four_-year-old daughter, trying to ensure that neither of them blundered out into the road before it was clear.

He rather suspected that Edith would not have taken them both together; she would have dropped Rosemary off and then taken Salisbury for a walk around the park. He, on the other hand, was rather hoping to actually get some work done today; so it was a matter of taking two birds with one stone. On a similar note, he had serious doubts that _Mommy _would have allowed Rosemary to go to nursery wearing her favourite glittery tiara and dress-up wings, in spite of his daughter's assurances. Still, it was hard to be truly angry with her, when she was so excited that she insisted on announcing to every hapless passer-by, 'This is my daddy!'. It was clear she was still revelling in the attention, as she had been all weekend.

Edith had departed on Friday night, for a ghastly-sounding hen weekend in Amsterdam with the fiancée of her youngest brother. She had been horrified at the prospect of spending a long weekend away with women that she hardly knew, but had been unable to think up an adequate excuse to get out of it. Personally, Mycroft had just been horrified at the prospect of being married into the same family as anyone who had a _hen weekend_ in _Amsterdam_. He had been concerned about Edith, to say the least; especially given her heroically low tolerance for alcohol. Thankfully, when she had phoned the night before, she didn't seem to be _too _drunk; and the warm affection in her tone had been rather refreshing. It had made him hopeful that things would be better on her return- their parting had been on a rather sour note, a hasty argument that there had been no time to repair. Mycroft was rather despairing at the idea it could do anything but flare up again, given that he had no intention of backing down and imagined she wouldn't either. He was at a loss to see how they could proceed without one of them giving in, and when it was this big an issue-

His thoughts were interrupted with the pull on his arm changing. Rosemary had taken to rocking back and forth on the curb stone, still babbling on about whatever her chosen topic was. His daughter was undoubtedly a talker, and she spoke so fast and usually in such a childish pitch that more often than not Mycroft would have absolutely no idea what she was saying. How Edith understood her babble was a mystery to him. Thankfully she was a fairly independent child, easy going and able to entertain herself. Over the weekend she had been quite happy to let Mycroft get on with his work as she played around him, provided he wear or hold the requisite props for whatever nonsense she was lost in at the time. He just wished there wasn't quite so much of the pink and sparkly involved. Edith had tried to wean her onto other, less lurid, colours, but Rosemary was always extremely insistent on the supremacy of all things pink. It was a pity, because it really wasn't her colour. Now she was older, she looked less like her grandmother and Sherlock, but she still had the Holmes cheekbones, unusually formed for a child her age, and dark hair, falling in tight ringlets down her back.

Usually, she had it tied up for nursery, but the mechanics of a ponytail had completely baffled her father, so today, it was loose. Rosemary was thrilled and kept shaking it out, delighted, it seemed, with her appearance that day. Mycroft dreaded her teenage years, when he had a sudden premonition Rosemary would spend hours in the bathroom agonising over spots, or black heads, or the fact that her nose was, admittedly, a little snubbed. At the moment, however, she was still blissfully unaware, and had slowed her prattle right down, because she had something _serious _to tell him and she wanted Daddy to _listen this time_.

"When I grow up," She said, as Mycroft finally found a gap big enough to navigate crossing the road with child and dog in tow. "I want to be a dancer."

"Oh." Mycroft said. It seemed sufficient response.

"Like Angelina." Rosemary added.

"Angelina? Is she in your class?"

"Not _that _Angelina." She said, as if Mycroft had previously had the faintest idea that there was indeed an Angelina at nursery. "She's a ballet dancer."

"Oh." Mycroft said again, racking his brains. He couldn't think of any famous ballet dancers- certainly not contemporary ones- who were called Angelina. He thought back to the last show of the Royal Ballet he had attended, running the names through his head. "I know an _Alina_. Do you perhaps mean Alina Cojocaru, Rosemary?"

"No, Daddy, _Angelina_." Rosemary insisted. "She's a mouse."

"Ah, of course. _That _Angelina."

Mycroft had never heard of a ballet-dancing mouse named _Angelina_, but if, as he suspected, the name had been chosen simply to rhyme with _Ballerina_, he would be writing a serious letter to the director of children's programming at the BBC. However, if Rosemary was serious about her desire to be a ballet dancer, if she was ever going to excel, it occurred to him they should probably enrol her in a class as soon as possible. Most of the principal dancers in any of the most famous ballets would have started at a very young age. Besides, after a weekend of bunnies and unicorns and far, far too much pink, Mycroft was more than ready to encourage almost any hobby Rosemary could have hit on.

Rosemary, however, was quite canny and had quickly uncovered his light subterfuge. "I don't think you know who Angelina is, Daddy." She said. "I don't think you know _anything_."

For a man who had built an entire career out of knowing everything, this was deep insult indeed. Mycroft frowned, trying to dredge up some nugget of information that would impress her. "I do know things." He said. "I know about _One Direction_."

"_One Direction_…" Rosemary repeated, her brow creasing as she pondered the boyband that, according to the news bulletin Mycroft had seen that morning, was getting to _Beatlemania _levels of popularity, particularly amongst pre-teen girls. According to the reporter, it was hard to find a girl under the age of twelve in the entire country who wouldn't profess herself to be in love with the cheeky frontman, Harry Stylist.

Of course, _his _daughter had to be the exception. "I don't like them." Rosemary decided.

"Well, who do you like?" Mycroft asked as patiently as he could, knowing it would be not far short of a miracle if she produced a name he had actually heard. He had no interest in pop music; they had to reach a certain level of infamy, madness even, before they would show up on his professional radar as someone worth keeping an eye on; just in case their private scandals sucked in anyone of note.

"Hmm." Rosemary pondered again, letting go of his hand to turn a clumsy play-pirouette as she thought it over. "Lady Gaga."

Mycroft spluttered. He had heard the name, yes, but he wasn't _pleased. _

"She's my role model." Rosemary announced with a certain amount of pride in her advanced vocabulary. Mycroft was proud too, but it didn't make him feel any better about the nature of his daughter's proclamation. He would be having serious words with Edith about Rosemary's musical taste.

Ooooooooooooo

For once, Mycroft had laid aside his work in favour of getting the house organised and tidy for Edith's return. They had settled well into their lives away from London, and even he was rather fond of the little home they had made for themselves. Edith sometimes found it a little quiet, he knew, but she was involved in book groups and the WI, had made friends with the other mothers there, and since Rosemary had started at nursery school had resumed doing a little work for Scotland Yard, on a purely casual ad hoc basis, when they needed an extra pair of hands; and never for more than a day a week. She also managed to keep the house miraculously neat and clean; a standard which Mycroft was beginning to realise he would never achieve. He was beginning to think the reason women had been so delayed joining the work force, and the reason the home had always been their domain, was simply because no man could hope to match their instinctual understanding of it. Vacuuming, for instance, should have been a simple matter- you turned it on, and ran the head over the carpet until all the bits were picked up. Yet, from his experience that day, all the bits would _never _be picked up. He didn't know how Edith did it. This was why men would always be reliant on their women-folk, he supposed.

Since his marriage, Mycroft had been slowly discovering a whole host of things he was simply not very good at. Housework, for one- except cooking, in that he had performed, in his daughter's words, 'adequately'. Dancing, for another. Playing. And now, he could add flower arranging to his list of marital short comings.

He had bought the flowers on the way back from dropping off Rosemary. He'd bought them to surprise Edith. He desperately wanted things to be alright between them again, even though he knew further arguments must have been on the horizon. He just wanted what was best for his daughter. The problem was, so did Edith; and now the bouquet that had looked lovely in the shop was hanging limply, and rather un-aesthetically, in a vase on the dining room table.

It was a question of education. Just before Edith had left, Mycroft had mentioned that it was time they started looking into Primary schools for their daughter. Edith had said that it was fine, that there wasn't much to do, but they could go and look around the village school on the open day if he wanted to see it.

Mycroft had been surprised by this, to say the least, as this was the first discussion they had ever had on the subject. He supposed in a way it was his own fault. In all matters concerning the child before this, he had deferred to his wife and her judgement, going with whatever she thought was best. It wasn't that he lacked interest; he had just known Edith had been in a better position to decide whether Rosemary was ready for solid foods or toilet training, what she should have for her birthday, whether or not she needed a haircut. Eventually she had stopped asking him, merely telling him what she had decided if he asked about it, and the system had worked perfectly well until now.

But Mycroft _did _want some say in Rosemary's education. He had a _right _to want that; this decision was arguably one of the most important they would ever make for her. And when Edith had said that the village school was fine, he had been unable to supress his scepticism, pointing out that if they wanted to get Rosemary into a decent boarding school when she turned eleven, she would really need to go to one of the better public schools in London now.

That was the moment when Edith had become truly angry. She didn't even want Rosemary going to a Primary in London, and boarding school was, in her opinion, _out of the question_. Mycroft did not appreciate being told that anything he thought was _out of the question_ without any proper reasons being given as to why, and had been forced to be rather more firm with her than he liked to be, explaining that if she wanted Rosemary to make a success of her life, they needed to give her the best start now; and that did not mean sending her to the local under-funded ramshackle grant-maintained comprehensive and _certainly _did _not _mean _molly-coddling _her at home until the age of eighteen.

In hindsight, this had not been the best thing to say. He thought it might have been the word '_molly-coddling_' that had done it. Edith had told him, rather frostily, that unlike him, she believed their daughter would be able to make something of herself _without _having to suck up to the old-boys network; that she wanted Rosemary to attend a school she could walk to, with friends that lived nearby; that she wanted Rosemary to have chance to be a _child_, not to send her away; that she didn't want to end up having the same relationship with Rosemary as Mycroft did with _his _mother.

This statement had been so utterly ludicrous Mycroft hadn't even bothered to waste the time refuting it. If his relations with his mother were strained, this was not the fault of boarding school but of his mother's complete abandonment of her children. Edith knew it too, but did not retract her statement, and they'd sat in stony silence until it was time she left, and one of them changed the subject.

And so the argument had gone unsettled. Mycroft dreaded its resumption, but he had missed Edith more than he had imagined he would. Sometimes it bothered him, struck him as slightly pathetic, to notice how reliant he had become on her company. Yet it didn't matter, not really, so long as she was always there. She called him about lunch time, to tell him she had got back and through customs much quicker than expected, and was already on the train back, and would he still be able to collect her from the station?

He could, of course. Moving out of London had made it a necessity for them to have a car. Edith had learnt to drive and took him to the station every morning; because it was still the easiest way for him to commute into the city. In truth, the car was barely used beyond this; in the village most places were within walking distance, and Edith liked to cycle when she could, as she had when she was a girl. The only time the car was really used was if Edith left the village to go to the nearest town and do a 'big shop', or if it was needed to move chairs and tables to a more prominent location for some WI charity event. It had been quite a long time since Mycroft had driven himself- in London, he'd had people to do it for him- but he still found it came quite naturally to him and he made his way through the now-quiet roads with ease. The station wasn't far, close enough to walk, really; but his daily commute was long enough without adding a decent walk in on top, and Edith would have her case with her. He pulled up on the patch of dirt that passed as a car park, pausing for a moment to admire the pretty 1930s copper and iron shelter over the platforms, before the thought was ruined by wondering how much it cost to maintain. He saw Edith's train approaching, and was on the platform himself by the time she arrived.

She got off from the doors about half way along the train, and he saw her spotting first the car on the other side of the fence, and then him walking towards her from the station. She broke into a gentle smile, undoubtedly pleased to see him, in spite of everything. Smiles like that had changed the world, just a little, hundreds of times for hundreds of people. Mycroft had taken the handle of her case in one hand, and hers in the other, and after the briefest of hellos and how are yous, they were in the car and heading home.

"I'm glad I'm back a little early." Edith said, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. "I'll come with you to collect Rosie."

"The password is _ballerina_." Mycroft said, trying to keep the despair out of his tone. He had been quite surprised when asked for a password when dropping off his daughter, as Edith hadn't mentioned it; but it seemed it was a security measure to leave behind a password if a _stranger _would be picking up a child. He had felt somewhat offended by this, although he knew there was no reason the staff there should recognise him. While he had been mentally bandaging his wounds, Rosemary had leapt in and suggested the password, leaving behind the current state of affairs. Edith laughed.

"The ballerina obsession has lasted into the new week, then, I take it?" She asked.

"Indeed." Mycroft nodded. "I think perhaps we ought to try and find her a dance class."

"Yes." Edith agreed. "I was just waiting to see if the interest would last this time, and then I was going to talk to you about it."

_At least you were going to talk to me about something_, Mycroft thought, and from the guilt in her tone, it seemed almost as if Edith could hear. But he didn't want to argue yet, not already, not before they were even back at the house, so after a moment of silence, he quickly changed subject.

"Did you enjoy the weekend at all?"

"It could have been worse." Edith admitted. "We had a lovely day in the spa, although I don't see how it kept them all entertained for _quite _so long. There's only so much lying about in various baths I can take."

Mycroft had to smile at that. He found it hard to imagine his always-busy Edith lying about at all.

"But… there's something I want to talk to you about, Mycroft." She said, slowly. Mycroft swallowed his irritation. If she was going to get into this right away, then he would be forced to meet her there. He wasn't going to back down just because he didn't want to fight right after being reunited, and it was rather inconsiderate, almost underhand, of her to try.

"Yes?" He said, rather more tersely than he wanted to. He was losing control of his tone more and more, lately.

"Rosemary will be starting school soon," she began, but the sentence did not finish the way he expected it to, "And… the thing is, well, a-at this weekend, I was the oldest one there, by quite a way. I was _ten years _older than the bride."

"You aren't old, Edith." Mycroft dismissed. "I'm eleven years older than you. I'm _twice _that bride's age."

"But age _matters _more for women." She continued, gently. "W-what I'm trying to say is… well, just to say, if you do ever want to have more children, I think we should, well, get on with it soon."

Mycroft wished she would not drop statements like that on him when he was driving. He wanted desperately to look her in the eye, but the best he could do was glance sideways at her before looking back at the road.

"Do you want more children?" He asked.

"I'm not saying that." She answered. "Just… if _you _do, I'd rather do it sooner than later."

"Edith, I'm asking if you do."

"I don't know. I suppose I just feel like our family isn't quite complete yet." She said, in the strangest version of 'yes' Mycroft had ever heard, which made affection swell somewhere in his chest. And yet, it was still pierced, by the sword that was hanging over them. He knew he would have to be careful in how he proceeded, but he didn't feel it could go unsaid.

"And do you believe now is the right time?"

"Well, yes; or in a few months, at least. I don't think I'd want them too far apart and once Rosie starts school-"

"Not that." He interrupted as politely as he could. "I mean, the right time between us."

"….are things wrong between us?" She asked, quietly.

Mycroft sighed. "Edith, you _know_-"

"I know we're fighting about schools." She cut him off. "But… that's just schools, isn't it? Everything else- our relationship- is still fine, isn't it? I know I missed you this weekend. I thought the school thing was just a fight, just something we have to talk over properly and work out. It doesn't mean _everything _is bad, does it?"

She was not being hypothetical, she was really asking him. But of course, she was right. The fight was just about schools. It didn't have to be about anything else. He felt the worry of the weekend lifting off him. There were still arguments to be had, but they would, as she said, work it out. Everything else was fine.

Edith was so pragmatic sometimes. This was why he had married her, it was like the times at the Diogenes all over again. He loved her for it.

That afternoon, they walked down to the nursery school together to collect their daughter, who was so excited to see them both there, you would have thought it was her birthday and Christmas occurring simultaneously. She positively beamed all the way home, and Mycroft became certain that the smile of someone who was pleased to see you really was the most gratifying thing in the world. He agreed with Edith- it was time they had another child.


	25. Twenty-Fourth Cup: Delivery

A/N: Phew! Didn't think I was going to get this done in time for a weekend update, but here it is :) And it's child number two! Special thanks to my lovely sister **Ashtrees **for figuring out a name for me :) I hope you all enjoy it!

I'm sorry to say there probably won't be an update yet again next weekend because I'll be at Alcon! If any of you are going to be in Leicester, feel free to come say hi :P I'll be the one with a knitted lemon on the top of my hat. Oh yes, it's Cabin Pressure cosplay time. Anyway, enjoy this chapter :)

Twenty-Fourth Cup: Delivery

The first Mycroft knew of the birth of his son was when Rosemary's school rang him to say that nobody had arrived to collect his daughter. It was ten to four on a Thursday afternoon.

Second pregnancies were supposed to be easier, and yet, Edith had struggled this time; her body perhaps punishing her for the fact that her first time had been relatively easy. She had begun getting fairly violent morning sickness in the third month and it had continued throughout the pregnancy. Even in the day time, she suffered constant nausea and heartburn; and eating a balanced diet was a struggle. The only thing she had an appetite for was apples, even though she had never been fond of them before. The amount she had got through in the past few months, Mycroft wouldn't be surprised if she never touched one again after their son was born.

He was pleased it was a boy, of course. It made for a pleasant balance in the family, and had been a pleasant outcome of the months they had spent trying to get pregnant to start with. It had taken just a little less than a year for Edith to successfully conceive, though there had been a few false alarms. Rosemary had been enthralled by the whole process of the pregnancy, watching her mother get fatter and fatter as the baby grew, fussing more than her father did, fetching cushions and constantly pausing in her games to go and check on her. Now five years old, she was getting impatient for her baby brother to be born; continually telling the bump in Mommy's stomach to 'hurry up'. There were still five weeks to go, which seemed to her young eyes an intolerably long time. It probably did to Edith, as well, who was by now thoroughly fed up of the whole thing and in constant low spirits. Mycroft had been spending more time than he perhaps ought to at the Diogenes club. This was not terribly sympathetic, he knew, but it was necessary. They were bickering more than he liked, but it would soon pass. Until then, he was just trying not to make it any worse.

At least the argument about schooling was behind them now, or at least postponed. They had agreed to look again at the boarding school idea closer to the time, realising they only really needed to settle the primary school debate. In the end he had bowed to Edith's opinion that, at such a young age, it would be better for Rosemary to go to school near where she lived, with other children in the area. Mycroft had made a tactical retreat and agreed; hoping that this would give him leverage in a few years' time when the question of boarding school came up again. Either way, Rosemary seemed happy enough, with an endless string of friends and all her reports saying she was the brightest in the class, though a little too much of a chatterbox. Mycroft had even managed to accompany his wife to Rosemary's class assembly, which was appalling, and his daughter was equally appalling in it- but he supposed one couldn't have everything. Rosemary was far too much of a show off to be a good actress, more concerned with making everyone look at her than convey any actual emotion. Still, she was only five and apparently completely unable to take anything seriously unless it truly interested her; her current interests being limited to her expected baby brother, the date of her Uncle's next visit, and ballet. The interest had stuck and only increased once she had started classes on a Wednesday afternoon and Saturday morning; and their hardest task as parents had become convincing her to stop practicing long enough every day to do her homework, eat and sleep. Unfortunately, she still had a deep love of the colour pink and all things glittery. In her opinion, everything was improved by glitter, including clothing, carpets, and wallpaper. Mycroft was rather resigned to it now.

As for Uncle Sherlock, he had, predictably, grown considerably less interested in Rosemary as she became more independent, able to talk, and able to move about. It hadn't helped with them moving outside of London, either. He had only ever come to visit them once, a few months ago, when the morning sickness had been particularly bad and Mycroft had bribed him into it in order to have an excuse to also invite John, who could then take a sneaky look at his wife, who refused to go to the doctors on the grounds that all this was to be expected when pregnant. It turned out she was right, but as John told her repeatedly, one couldn't be too careful.

Rosemary had been delighted to see her uncle, and no less delighted by John, who it turned out was as fond of children as they were of him. She was, however, most upset that they were no longer living together. She asked if they had got a divorce, which would have been a golden opportunity for them to discuss same-sex relationships with her, but John made it difficult by trying to explain that while some men _were _in love with each other, he and Uncle Sherlock weren't. Rosemary didn't believe it, and made quite a fuss when John told her he would soon be marrying someone else, a _lady_, but perked up when John promised to send her close-up pictures of the wedding dress. Sherlock had snorted. He was going to be the best man, again. Apparently he had not needed as much persuasion as for Mycroft; or rather John hadn't given him a choice. John had invited Mycroft and Edith too, though the reception would run a little late to bring Rosemary with them. Mycroft hadn't wanted to go, but was now determined to, if only to make sure that Sherlock did his duty. Edith's attendance would depend on the baby- due ten weeks before the wedding, it would all depend on how they both were and if he was ready to be left with his grandparents for the day.

As it turned out, it wouldn't be a problem; because their son would be more than a month older than he should have been at that point.

Rosemary's school rang through to his mobile; quite naturally, they would not have been given the number to the secured landline that ran into his office. However, it was somewhat a surprise as his number was the third on the list of emergency contacts- they should have tried the house first, and then Edith's mobile. The teacher, too, seemed a little sheepish about disturbing him.

"I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes," She said. "The thing is, your wife hasn't arrived to collect Rosemary, and she doesn't seem to have made any other arrangements. We've tried to call her, but…"

"I see." Mycroft said, trying not to let his feelings slip into his voice. This wasn't like Edith, not at all. "I'm sorry. I… I'm still in London, but I'll make arrangements for her. Perhaps…" He realised this was the time that having a local network would be useful. He also realised he had no idea of the names of the other children in Rosemary's class, let alone their parents. Thankfully the teacher took pity on him.

"Amber's mother has offered to take her back to theirs, if you'd like. They'll give her her dinner and bring her around later if that would be better for you?"

Mycroft had no idea who Amber was, or who her mother was, but at that moment he was forced to trust them implicitly. He just wanted to know what had happened to Edith.

"Yes, yes, thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Not at all, Mr Holmes, and I do hope Mrs Holmes is alright."

"Thank you."

Mycroft hung up. He called the house. No answer. He called Edith's mobile to the same result.

He picked up his coat and briefcase and called Sherlock as he left the building, hoping his brother wasn't too busy or too stubborn to pick up. He knew Sherlock was between cases at the moment, so if he was reaching the levels of boredom where he would even accept a case Mycroft sent his way-

Sherlock, the man who had a moving street map of London held in his brain, picked up. "Mycroft, what a pleasant surprise."

"I need the quickest route out of London and back to my house at this time of day."

"Why?"

"Sherlock, am I getting on the tube or not?"

"No. Get in the car, get a fast driver. I'll direct you."

It was amazing, really, how much Sherlock had matured over the years. He had learnt how to save questions for later, he had learnt how to be kind. Thank goodness for John Watson.

Ooooooooooooo

Mycroft reached home in record time, letting himself in as quickly as he could without fumbling with the keys. He wasn't sure if he wanted Edith to be there or not. Obviously, he wanted her accounted for, he wanted to know she was safe and well- but if she was, why hadn't she answered the phone?

The house was quiet when he entered, so much so that he almost turned around and left again, but then he thought to check for her mobile. It was sitting on the kitchen worktop, where she always left it, flashing the light that meant missed calls. Next to it, the answering machine for the landline was also blinking. Wherever Edith was, she hadn't reached the phone.

The silence broke suddenly with Edith's voice, her tone usually strained as she bellowed his name, tapering off at the end into an agonised groan that shook him to the core. Mycroft took the stairs two at a time, running faster even than he had on that hill near her parents' house, listening to her moan again in agony. He pushed open the bathroom door. It wasn't locked.

"Edie?"

The bathroom was a mess. So was she, wearing only a bathroom, bracing her back against the tub, and very definitely in labour.

"Mycroft." She gasped. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"What happened?" He asked, kneeling down next to her.

"I thought it was just cramps, again, like I've been having." She groaned again, convulsively grabbing his arm. Behind her, the tub was full of water, now grown cold. She had probably been running a bath to try and ease the pain, before realising she was going into labour. "I couldn't get to the phones. I didn't dare try the stairs. I-" She moaned again. The contractions were coming far too frequently for his liking. Mycroft frowned.

"Edith, it isn't safe to give birth in an unsterile environment when we haven't even had the house prepared for a home birth."

"Oh. I'll start again then, shall I?!" She gasped out, clenching his arm so tightly it hurt. Mycroft had not been present for this stage in the proceedings before; all he knew was that it was all rather sweaty and unpleasant, and that his wife hadn't been given any sort of painkiller, and he had never heard cries of pain quite like it.

"Are you pushing? Edith, you mustn't push yet. You're not due. Besides, we aren't at the hospital."

"I'm pushing _now_, Mycroft." She spat through her teeth, face lined with sweat, gripping him tighter, before moaning loudly again. Mycroft struggled free and dashed downstairs for the telephone, calling an ambulance. Salisbury scratched piteously at the back door, startling him. The poor creature had probably been stuck outside for hours; but she could stay there for the moment. The emergency services operator was asking him all sorts of questions, about how dilated his wife was- as if he had _any _reason or way of knowing- how frequent the contractions were. She said she the ambulance was on its way, and not to worry, she would talk him through a home delivery.

Mycroft would have rather trusted the _NHS _to deliver his son than hear those words, and his first reaction was, implausibly, to refuse. But he couldn't. There was no-one else; and poor Edie was still screaming upstairs.

He still remembered one of his father's few pieces of advice, his adamant insistence that there were key opportunities, key moments in life; and either you manned up and grabbed that moment, or you regretted it forever. He was talking about business, of course, but the principle stood. Mycroft had to man up. He had to grab the moment. He had to rise to the challenge, and get his son safely into the world, and his wife safely through a premature childbirth.

And he did it, somehow. He would never say so to Edith, but it was quite therapeutic in a way. Never had his thoughts been so still, so quiet, no longer contemplating a myriad web of possible cause and effect, but instead taking a back seat, so that the instructions entering his ear could be more quickly transferred to where they were needed. Edith worked hard, unceasingly, and a few moments before the emergency services arrived, Zachariah Mycroft Holmes came into the world.

He was called Mycroft in the old family tradition of the eldest boy taking his father's name as his middle one. Mycroft had himself landed with Thaddeus as a middle name for this very reason. The name Zachariah had come, surprisingly, from Rosemary; one of the more sensible names she had suggested. 'He'll never be able to spell it', Edith had laughed.

For a heart wrenching forty-seven seconds after his birth, Zachariah, bundled in their second-best bath towel, did not cry. Then, at last, he let out a choking whine, building into a wail, and his parents could breathe again. The paramedics arrived and, pausing only to cut away the umbilical cord with their sterile instruments, whisked them all away to hospital and the premature baby unit.

At least Rosemary, when Mycroft brought her to visit a few hours later, seemed amused, rather than frightened, at the sight of her little brother in the incubator and hardly needed her parents' reassurances that it was mostly precautionary. Nor did she seem particularly perturbed by the strange circumstances of his arrival.

"If I'd been there, I could have called the ambulance right away, mommy." She said with an unimpressed frown, that Edith always insisted was very like Mycroft's own. "I told you that you should have let me stay home to help." Then she added, "Is he always going to have to sleep in the bath?" and so proved that her understanding was not always as complete as she might like to pretend.


	26. Twenty-Fifth Cup: Hearing

A/N: So, I finally bowed to the inevitable and signed up for Tumblr! I don't really have any idea what to do with it though, so if you have any suggestions for content, know any good blogs to follow, or would like me to follow you, please let me know! You can find me, as always, as WikketKrikket. I'll be the one who doesn't know what she's doing.

That aside, please enjoy the chapter! :)

Twenty-Fifth Cup: Hearing

Mycroft was not prone to dreaming, at night or otherwise. Nor was Edith, as far as he knew; the subject never really came up. However, his wife was very nearly as bad as him at playing pretend games with Rosemary, so that was as good an indication as any that even in her imagination she remained level headed. Mycroft certainly was not one to remember his dreams when he woke up.

That night, however, was different. He woke up with a very clear impression of what had been running through his sleeping mind. It was his son, crying, his strange, staccato sobs that were so different to Rosemary's wails. The house was dark and the hiccupping cry echoed through it, petering into a thin, reedy whine; sometimes loud, sometimes barely enough to drown out a whisper, and Mycroft walked through the house unable to find where the noise was coming from.

The answer, of course, was the cot at the end of their bed. Mycroft woke up properly just as Zachariah drew breath for another cry. It was shortly after three in the morning, and Edith was already slipping out of bed to tend to him. Mycroft turned on the lamp for her.

"Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's just being silly." Edith answered, shushing the child and continuing to rub gentle circles on his back, as he had already stopped crying and was snuffling as he settled back down. "Still, that's the first time in a good ten days, perhaps two weeks. We can probably think about moving him into his own room, he seems to be sleeping through well enough."

"Yes." Mycroft agreed. Their son was certainly less verbose than Rosemary had been at his age. At four months, while not yet making proper babbling sounds that would be the precursor to speech, she had certainly at least begun to master vowels and had oohed and ahhed with the best of them. Zachariah, on the other hand, was relatively silent, though when he did cry he was often much more difficult to calm. The fact tugged awkwardly at the back of Mycroft's brain, reminding him of something from his own childhood.

Of course, he had been so young when Sherlock had been a baby, his perception had probably been exaggerated. But he remembered Sherlock being an odd child, quite content to be left to his own devices even as a baby; and when he did cry, neither soft voices nor gentle cuddles would soothe him any better than just leaving him to get bored of it. He remembered how as a baby Sherlock would never be interested in playing with him or their parents, largely ignoring them. He remembered the first time he overheard his father kicking that ugly word about, arguing with his mother in their bedroom, _autism, autism_. And then, later, when the term came into wider usage and the condition better known, Sherlock was upgraded to _Aspergic_, and then, later still, when Sherlock was at the age where he wanted to do nothing else but follow his brother around like a baby chick, he was downgraded to _Aspergic tendencies. _It was all nonsense. Mycroft had known his whole life it was nonsense. Sherlock had personality quirks- not _defects, _never _defects- _and if it was easier to sort his eccentricities, strengths and weaknesses under a certain label, then so be it. But his brother had never really gotten _better_. He was just smart, a genius. Of course he had learnt to ape social behaviours better than others, of course he could do it well enough to fool his parents and psychologists that he was almost ordinary, just not ordinary enough to be boring. Sherlock still struggled with the same things he always had, he had just become better at hiding it.

And yet it was still such an ugly word, a frightening word. Mycroft could remember going into a room and calling his baby brother's name and getting no response at all, and now the same thing would happen with his son. He could still hear his father's angry voice, shouting it at his mother, who refused to accept it; and even now the shout echoed in his mind, _autism, autism. _

Mycroft did not sleep easily the rest of that night.

Ooooooooooooo

It was Sunday, their family day; and that gave Mycroft the opportunity to test his theory. Fears in the darkness of night seem very different in the light of day, and he didn't want to worry Edith unnecessarily, not unless he was sure there was a definite need for their son to be tested. The pregnancy had been difficult for her, the labour as well. She had said she did not want to have any more children, and meant it. Mycroft had been concerned, at first, that she'd had a touch of post-natal depression, as she had seemed to find their son so much harder to cope with; but as the exhaustion passed, she had recovered well, ever resilient. Currently, she was in the kitchen making lunch, Rosemary was upstairs (practicing ballet yet again, from the sounds of the thuds. She really would have to learn to be less enthusiastic and more delicate if she wanted to progress), leaving Mycroft alone in the lounge, keeping one eye on his son, running the other down a government report he would need the next day.

Zachariah was on the rug on the floor, seemingly quite happy. He was just starting to learn how to sit up on his own and had so far succeeded only in draping himself over Salisbury, curling chubby hands into her fur as he flopped over her back. This did not worry Mycroft; the dog was unerringly calm and gentle around the children, and the baby in particular seemed to adore her. Mycroft set his file aside, the pages rustling as they made contact with the arm of the chair. No reaction from Zachariah, no curiosity as to what this sound outside of his field of vision was. Mycroft leant forward on his chair.

"Zachariah." He said, as clearly as he could. He wasn't quite sure if babies should have been able to recognise their own names by this point, but certainly they were supposed to respond to familiar voices. Not his son, however. His son was still patting down the dog, for a purpose that Mycroft could not understand. Perhaps it was simply because the dog was there, perhaps he was trying to pet her, or perhaps he liked the feel of the skin beneath the fur, to feel the movement of her breath, perhaps even the beat of her heart.

It came to him suddenly then, and surprised him so much he had wanted almost to laugh; though the situation wasn't funny. Usually babies were suspected of hearing problems, then diagnosed as autistic. He had been blinded by his family history, and made the exact opposite assumption. When he thought about it, Zachariah was a sociable child; he would coo delightedly when his mother or sister or father came into the room. Sherlock had never done that, but Zachariah was always pleased to see them- to _see _them. The only time he was unresponsive was when whatever was happening was outside of his line of vision. It was unlikely his son suffered the same condition as his brother; it was much more likely that his baby was as deaf as a post.

The full implications of this hit him a moment after the relief. He knew nothing about hearing impairment and deafness. There was a whole 'deaf culture' he knew nothing about; whole languages he did not understand. Autism he knew about, Aspergers he could understand, he knew the advantages and limitations that could afflict those on the spectrum. If his son couldn't hear, he had no idea where to begin. He did not know how to give him the best chances in life.

He was getting ahead of himself. Mycroft mentally gave himself a stern look. There were procedures to be gotten through, proper steps to take, tests that would need to be carried out before he sought further information about what to do. First and foremost, he needed to be certain his fears were not carrying him away before he confided in Edith.

"Zachariah." He said again, leaning even more in his chair, reaching out to click his fingers behind his son's head; so close that he could almost feel the soft hairs on the back of them. There was still no reaction. Not from his son, anyway.

"What are you doing?" Edith asked from the doorway. She came in and scooped up her son, who wriggled happily. He clearly had no problems with being held. "Don't click at him, Mycroft, he's not a dog."

For the first time, Mycroft noticed a strand of grey in his wife's hair. She either hadn't noticed it or didn't care enough to mention it, but it made him wonder about his attitude. She had been young when he'd married her, almost eight years ago now; Edith was now some way into her thirties. It probably wasn't entirely fair of him to still think of her as a girl. Some things, the things he loved, hadn't changed, but she was older and wiser, more experienced; somehow cannier now. He often thought that she had grown into herself. Perhaps he was wrong to keep his fears from her, perhaps he ought to have told her immediately. Then again, mothers did tend to have a blind spot when it came to their children and it was somewhat surprising he had noticed the problem first. It was best to be sure there was a problem before trying to force her to see it.

"Edith, I don't think he responds to sounds." He said, as gently as he could. "He may have some sort of hearing problem."

"What?" Edith looked down at their child rather helplessly, holding him closer to herself. "How can you possibly-"

Mycroft clapped his hands suddenly, loudly. The sound echoed around the room, causing Edith to start. Even Rosemary upstairs stilled for a moment before the steady rhythm of steps resumed. Little Zachariah remained largely undisturbed, looking first at his mother, and then cocking his head towards his father, in the direction of her gaze.

Ooooooooooooo

Edith was quiet for the rest of the day and somewhat tearful that night. Mycroft didn't know what to say to her. He couldn't tell her how politically incorrect her worry was; it just wouldn't do to point out that deaf people lead full and happy lives, that they were no different to anyone else. She knew this, just as he knew it. It just wasn't something they would have chosen. That was all.

Edith worried it was her fault, that she had done something or not done something she should have done during the pregnancy, that it was because she hadn't realised she was in labour and gone to the hospital. Mycroft couldn't reason with her. She just couldn't understand that sometimes these things just happened. That things just happened was easy enough to understand, until they happened to you.

Ooooooooooooo

"He isn't deaf."

Mycroft gritted his teeth. He should have known coming here was a bad idea.

"Sherlock, there's clearly a problem. He doesn't react to noises, that's why we're getting him-"

"Yes, yes, yes. Hard of hearing, maybe, but your son isn't deaf."

"Sherlock."

"Get him tested, then, they'll say the same thing."

Mycroft ran a hand over his eyes. It had already been a terribly long day, and it was barely past ten in the morning. After entrusting Rosemary to one of the neighbours to be taken to school, he and Edith had travelled into London together, to take Zachariah to have his hearing checked. Edith had barely said a word the whole journey, just kept hold of their son, stroking his hair. She'd stopped singing to him the past few weeks. Mycroft found he missed it, strangely.

They had arrived in London far too early for the appointment and so had, in a way that somehow seemed quite natural, drifted into Baker Street. Sherlock had been taking fewer cases recently, slowing down perhaps because of the 'forty' that loomed not too many years away from his horizon, or more likely because John had settled into married life. John came to see Sherlock every Thursday evening, Sherlock had explained with a look of disgust. His visits had become _routine_. Sherlock despised routine to his very core and would, Mycroft was quite sure, deliberately choose to be out on some Thursday evenings just out of spite. Perhaps there were simply fewer cases coming Sherlock's way nowadays. Whatever the reason, Sherlock seemed much more content in his relative inactivity than he would have been in the past. His reading habit had grown far worse, and he seemed to be devouring text books on obscure subjects for the sheer pleasure of it, without concern about clogging up his brain. His violin was resting on a precarious pile of books, including _A Practical Guide to Bee Keeping_, _The Language of the Fan around the World_, _A Complete Technical History of Radar, Frank Capra: A Comprehensive Biography _and _Cosmochemical Evidence for Astrophysical Processes during the Formation of Our Solar System_. Clearly his reading had progressed somewhat since John's jibes about the sun all those years ago. The book was dislodged and fell to the floor as Sherlock picked up the violin, knocking over another stack as it went. Sherlock ignored it, picking out a tune on the violin with his fingers, watching the child in Edith's lap intensely.

"Sherlock, stop it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Don't be so childish."

"He isn't deaf."

"And how would you possibly know that? This is only the second time you've seen him."

"He reacted when I fired the pistol last time."

"I don't want to talk about that again, Sherlock."

"He started crying, he must have heard it."

"Babies cry, Sherlock. It's coincidence."

"Fine. Ignore the evidence. It must make a change from covering it up."

They fell into silence for a moment. Sherlock stood, taking up his bow and beginning to play the violin properly. He was still glancing towards Zachariah now and then. Mycroft could see Edith growing tense.

"Stop it." She said, quietly.

Naturally, Sherlock didn't; he just gave up the pretence and came closer, crouching awkwardly to play the instrument closer to the baby. He began working through a scale.

He couldn't see the expression on Edith's face. This was nothing short of cruel.

"Sherlock, that's-" Mycroft began, but another note came out of the violin, and suddenly the child turned to look at it. Sherlock played the note again, and Zachariah reached out, grasping clumsily at the very end of the bow, even though it was now still. Sherlock played the note a third time, and his nephew gurgled cheerfully.

"Your son isn't deaf." Sherlock repeated, tugging the bow out of harm's way before it could be damaged, patting the baby gently on the head instead and withdrawing to the other side of the room, returning to playing one of his beloved Bach melodies. "Get him a hearing aid, he'll be fine."

Mycroft said nothing. It seemed Sherlock was correct, but Edith was smiling, and that was the main thing.

Ooooooooooooo

**A/N: I am now open to suggestions for this story! Very open! Most of my ideas after this point are centred on when the children are teenagers/adults, but I'd like to have a few more with them when they're young, too. Also, I don't think our husband and wife duo have been getting much love lately, so any prompts would be much appreciated. 3 Thank you!**


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